The Mary Sue Experiments: Hochstetter's Revenge
by Tuttle4077
Summary: What happens when the current batch of HH fanfic authors find themselves targeted and sent back to Stalag 13? Can they return to the future before disaster strikes?
1. 2019 Prologue

**2019**

Americans. Immoral. Foolish. Naive.

_Soft._

So very soft.

Wolfgang Hochstetter, a Gestapo major of the Third Reich, leaned back in his chair and glanced about the room. Well lit and neat, it certainly did not belong in a prison. In fact, nothing about the facility fit his idea of a prison. It was practically a luxury resort.

To be fair, it was minimum security. Hochstetter had been on his best behaviour. The first prison he had been held in was not nearly so pleasant, but still too cushy in Hochstetter's mind. He couldn't imagine being so soft on his own prisoners.

Back in that first prison, angry and indignant, he had tried everything to escape, to return to his own time. To his home. To his power.

But to no avail.

And then he realized something. Actually, he had learned it from Colonel Hogan: if he acted like a cowed prisoner, displayed a veneer of helplessness, he could slowly work to become the most dangerous man in America, right under his captors' noses.

He didn't change immediately. He played his hand very well. Slowly, he crafted a new his image for himself. Little by little he allowed himself to go from a frothing Nazi (words used by his captors), to a helpless man out of time, hopelessly confused by modern technology and the changing dynamics of the world in all its facets. A man from a nation defeated over half a century before. A man whose ideology was long dead and despised. A man so overwhelmed by this new world, that he could not possibly be a threat.

Truthfully, it wasn't hard. The future _was_ strange and confusing. And learning that Germany had lost the war so terribly had initially shaken his morale.

In fact, it was all so overwhelming that he had briefly considered genuinely transforming himself.

But then he learned that ideas never really died. Yes, the Third Reich had crumbled, but deep in the underbelly of society, its ideals lived on. And as time went on, he learned that the ideas were not so deeply buried as polite society wanted people to think.

So even as he made himself more docile, even as he was moved from the darkest depths of the CIA's facilities and into better and better conditions because of his good behaviour, Major Hochstetter never really changed. He found allies within the prison walls- amongst inmates and captors alike. And, more importantly, he found them on the outside as well.

Computers. The internet. Foreign words and concepts at first, but once he learned of their capabilities, Hochstetter threw himself into learning everything he could about them, and all the other modern technologies he encountered. It boggled his mind that his captors would allow him, or any of their prisoners, access to such devices.

Soft. So soft.

Through these inventions, he could contact people outside his prison walls. Find like-minded people. People willing to help him.

He found other things too.

He couldn't even remember how he had stumbled across it, but he did. _Hogan's Heroes_. A television serial based on Colonel Hogan's espionage and sabotage activities against the Reich. A filthy series of lies that turned Hogan into the hero and Hochstetter and his compatriots into bumbling idiots. The only thing it got right what Klink's treasonous incompetence.

It infuriated him.

But what infuriated him even more was its popularity. The series itself was decades old, but people still watched it, still enjoyed it. So much so that there was a group of people who perpetuated the insulting premise by writing stories about it, long after the show had ended. People who sat behind their computers, concocting new ways to humiliate him and idolize Hogan.

Fanfiction, they called it. Bah. Nonsense written by delusional women who could not see Hogan for what he was: a menace who had stopped Germany from bringing peace and order to a muddled, filthy world.

He tried to dismiss it. He had more important things to focus on. But he soon found himself obsessed with the idea that there was a group of people so devoted to Hogan. He read everything. Every tale. Every lie. And with each new story where Hogan won, despite the odds, his resentment grew. Every time Hochstetter was foiled or made the fool, he became angrier and angrier. More and more obsessed.

And then he learned that some of those authors had help to orchestrate his capture and captivity in the future.

He hated them.

He hated the _idea_ of them.

And so his plans evolved. He would go back. He would take his knowledge of the future and set things right. Germany would win this time, the world would be purged of everything filthy. Hogan would pay.

And those damned fawning authors too. All of them he could find.

The computer in front of him shook him out of his musings with a little ping.

A message.

"We have it."

A slow smile crossed Hochstetter's lips.

Finally.

Expertly, his fingers picked out a few letters in reply.

"Do it."


	2. A Chance Encounter? (Snooky-9093)

Author's Notes:

11 years ago, a group of HH fanfiction authors found out It Was All Real, and were sent back in time and space to Stalag 13. Chaos and adventure ensued. They made it safely through the experience and returned home, bringing Major Hochstetter and General Biedenbender with them to be held in CIA custody.

The story ended with Colonel Hogan and Klink traveling separately to 2008.

But there were a lot of unanswered questions:

-Just who was that CIA man who shared a last name with one of the Heroes.

-What happened to Biedenbender? Or Hochstetter?

-The last thing any of the time travelers heard in 1943 was "Colonel! There's trouble. It's-" So what was the trouble? How did it lead to Hogan coming to 2008?

-Klink is in 2008. How did he get there and what happens?

-What is Hogan's mission in 2008? Is he looking for Klink? Or something or some else entirely? Does Hogan even know Klink is in 2008?

-In the context of this story scenario- that _Hogan's Heroes_ and Stalag 13 were historically real- who created the _Hogan's Heroes _television show, and why? Which of the real Heroes gave the TV show all its information?

This story sets out to answer some, though not necessarily all, of these questions. But the primary goal of The Mary Sue Experiments is for the HH fanfic authors to insert themselves into the universe and write themselves as honestly as possible without turning into Mary Sues or Gary Stus.

If you haven't read the original, posted by GSJessica (though authored by many people), I suggest you look it up and at least give it a good skimming.

Like its predecessor, this story will be written by multiple authors. Aside from writing chapters from their own point of view, authors are encouraged to write "Hero" chapters, written in the third person to give the heroes' perspective on things.

Though a rough outline of the plot has been discussed, the details will unfold as each author adds his/her unique contribution. We may even end up chasing a few plot bunnies along the way as we adapt to what another author has written.

If you are an HH author, or even a reader who wants to get in on the action, please send me (Tuttle4077) a PM.

And now, on with the story.

* * *

**A Chance Encounter?**

**Written by Snooky-9093**

August 24, 2008

A Sunday morning. Washington, DC.

It's a small world. You see, I'm a magnet for unexpected meetings, or coincidence, if you will. I've attended a major league baseball in a stadium that held over 70,000 people, and discovered my neighbors from across the street seated two boxes in front of me. Unplanned. My mother and I took a trip into Manhattan and ran into a co-worker at the top of the Empire State Building. True. I worked at a summer recreation program at our local school district one year, went on a trip to Jones Beach, and bumped into my younger second cousin from Queens. At the beach…amongst thousands of people. Honest! Back to the baseball stadium. Drove in there one evening with parents, and saw my relatives (same family as the beach incident) walking through the parking lot. Seriously! Interviewed for a job at a university library in Florida. Manager who interviewed me used to live several blocks away from us on Long Island and…wait for it…her husband worked with my father at a company in the 1950's! Freaky! And the piece de resistance. While I was studying abroad in London, England in 1981…and keep in mind, London is huge; seriously huge…my mom came over to visit me for a week. One morning, I left with my college group to attend an event at a theater in Leicester square, and my mother took off sightseeing on her own. I leave the theater and there is my mother (who had no idea what time the program was ending) standing outside the door. This was so incredible that we actually thought we were so supposed to meet there…at that…time. Until we almost fell on the ground, laughing.

So it came as no surprise to me that as I was exiting the Hotel Harrington in Washington, DC. , the polite gentleman holding the door for me looked very familiar. I thanked him as I wondered why he was wearing a trench coat, and then nicely reminded him to put out his cigarette. He shut the door, looked at the no-smoking sign, shrugged and stubbed his cigarette out in the container by the entrance. It was at that moment that I suspected who he was. He looked exactly like the man in the photo GSJessica posted on one of the Hogan's Heroes' Yahoo groups. I already knew that Biedenbender and Hochstetter were here, so why not him? After all, I had heard that something ominous was about to occur at Stalag 13, just as the time travelers were leaving.

I didn't approach him right away. Instead, I decided to follow and see what he would do next. Actually, I wasn't one hundred percent sure it was him at the time, although he certainly had the look of someone who didn't belong. Why would a man be wearing a white trench coat in Washington DC, which is basically a swamp, at the end of August? I went back into the hotel and stood behind a large plant, ready to eavesdrop on his conversation with the desk clerk.

"I need a room," he said to the young woman behind the desk. "How much for one night?"

She looked up, smiled and said, "Of course, sir. Let's see. Do you have a frequent guest card with us?"

Hogan shook his head.

"AAA Card?"

Hogan shook his head.

"You definitely don't have an AARP card," she said calmly. "Well, then the best I can offer you is a room

with a king-size bed. $199.00."

Hogan's mouth hung open.

He took out his wallet and pulled out a wad of money. "Can you perhaps do better on the room if I pay

in cash?"

"Do you have a credit card, sir? We can't book a room if we can't get a credit card number. You

understand, certainly. And I'll need your driver's license."

Hogan looked around the lobby for a moment. "Boy, this place has seen better days," he mumbled.

"Never mind."

Yes, after hearing this conversation, I was almost completely convinced this definitely had to be the colonel. The next thing that happened sealed it.

The man walked past the plant. He stopped, turned on a dime, and said in a whisper. "You're eavesdropping. Are you one of those people, or the CIA or OSS or whatever it's called now?"

I stepped around the plant, momentarily getting caught up in the plastic greens, which I shooed away from my face. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about. I was just admiring the fauna."

"It's fake." He grabbed my arm. "Let's get out of here."

"Let go, or I'll scream." Sure I was almost completely convinced, but I wasn't about to leave a hotel with a strange man.

"I'm Colonel Robert E. Hogan. United States Air Corp. Serial number 0876707. Do you know GS Jessica and Catalyna, and Linda, and Tuttle4077?" (1)

I stood speechless for a moment and then recovered. "Yes. Let's get out of here." No words were exchanged until we walked out of the hotel, turned the corner, and stopped outside of a Starbucks. "Here, come in here." I walked in and found a small table off in a corner. It was near the rest room, and no one else was around. Sit here and don't move. You want some coffee?"

"Sure," Hogan said. "Black."

I went up to the counter and ordered a black coffee, a cup of tea, and two pieces of pound cake. I had to give it to Hogan. He stayed put. Fortunately, the clerk gave me a tray.

"So," I said. "My name is Sue. Nice to meet you." I held out my hand.

He shook it tentatively. "CIA , author, or some other agency I haven't heard of?"

"I'm just a reader. But I wasn't around for the time travel fiasco. I just joined."

He nodded. "$199 is highway robbery."

"There are better places," I said. "It's gone downhill. I just went in there to use the restroom before heading to the museums. You're lucky the clerk didn't report you. No luggage and paying in cash. Not a good thing to do nowadays."

"Why?"

I sighed. "The future isn't always bright. Anyway, how did you get here?"

Hogan ran his fingers through his hair. "How did you get here? This is quite a coincidence." He was suspicious, and who could blame him. I'd be suspicious. "And how do I know you are telling the truth?"

"I have a knack for chance meetings at unusual times. Call it the small world affect. Not sure why, it just happens. I can't prove to you right now who I am. I don't have a computer on me." I snapped my fingers. "We need to get access to the internet somewhere."

"There are lots of computers in here." Hogan had obviously cased out the joint. "And, yes. I need access to the internet." He took a swig of his coffee and made a face. "This is strong."

"I think so, that's why I have tea. Yeah, well. I'm not about to ask a total stranger if I can use their computer."

"What about this?" He took out a cell phone and handed it to me.

I tried to turn it on, but it appeared dead. "Either it needs charging, or it got damaged on your trip here," I noted. "We can find a library or a store, and try and get access there. Oh, and I'm here because I was spending the day down this way while my daughter is on a college tour. She's up at American University. She's staying there for a few days. I'm at a hotel in Bethesda. See. Look." I showed him my hotel keycard. He didn't bat an eye. "And here is my daughter's schedule at AU. Believe me now?"

"You seem genuine. We should talk outside." Hogan looked around the shop. I could see he was a bit uncomfortable, so I agreed. I took a last swig of my tea, and grabbed the tray. After clearing the table, we left and headed out onto the sidewalk. It was a beautiful Sunday morning, so I suggested walking towards the mall where we could sit on a bench.

As we made our way down towards the Smithsonian, Hogan couldn't help but glance at a few of the paper kiosks lining the sidewalks. "Guess that's how you figured out you were out of your time," I said.

"Obviously, "he stated. He removed his trench coat, continued walking, and then stopped dead. He turned on a dime, and walked back to the Washington Post kiosk and stared. "Can you buy me one? I don't have any change."

"Sure." I dug around my purse, came up with the exact change and almost put it in when I paused. "No, I can't. You can't know the future. At least, that's what they always say in time travel shows."

"Seriously? Buy me the paper," he demanded in his best command voice, which I had to admit was stronger than Bob Crane's.

"Sorry. Not unless it's cleared by some of the others. I assume you are trying to find the time traveling writers?"

Hogan gave up. "Then tell me this. Is this is for real? This man…" he pointed to Barack Obama" …is going to be the nominee for president?"

"Yes, it is."

Hogan nodded. "Took long enough."

"Too long," I replied. "Way too long."

"Kinch would be really pleased. And yes, I'm looking for the writers. I need their help."

"To find the others?"

"Biedenbender and Hochstetter can't stay here. They don't belong," Hogan said. "And how did you know about the time travel fiasco? I'm sure they were told in no uncertain terms to keep quiet about it."

I laughed. "Word got around about what happened. Couldn't be helped. We all talk. And you didn't answer my question. How did you get here?"

"Klink's here as well," Hogan stated. "Let's sit down over there." He pointed to a bench on the north side of the mall, facing Constitution Avenue. Turning around, Hogan gazed out at the Smithsonian. "More museums than the last time I was here. He pulled out a map and opened it, glancing up every now and then to get his bearings. "I found this on the ground. Let's see. Aha. The Air and Space Museum. I wonder?"

"No," I said emphatically. "No way. No how. You can't go in there. Too much information."

"I know a lot more than you think." Hogan crossed his legs, and stared at the map again. "Vietnam Memorial. Korean War Memorial. More wars. Damn. Holocaust…"

"That's enough." Without warning, I grabbed the map out of Hogan's hand.

"Give it back."

"No. You need to find a place to go, I'll navigate. Not giving it back. You've learned too much already."

Hogan scratched his chin. "You're quite a firebrand, aren't you? What are you, five feet tall?"

"Less." I couldn't help but smile. "And thanks for the compliment. Why did you go to that hotel?"

"I needed a base for operations. Somewhere to work, find the internet and find the others."

I took a deep breath. I couldn't leave the man alone, especially in Washington. Goodness knows what terrible things could happen. And I would be the first to admit that the three Germans didn't belong here. "Tell me what happened at Stalag 13 right before the writers left, and I'll help you."

Hogan's lips drew into a tight line. "I can't tell you that. And if that's your condition for helping me, I'll find a way to get it done by myself."

He was so serious and sincere that I caved. Hogan was a scary man when he wanted to be. And maybe it was better that I didn't know anyway.

Twenty minutes later, Hogan and I were on the Metro red line on our way to Bethesda. I figured the safest way to handle this was to keep him in sight and head to my hotel, besides it was brutally hot, and even though I was wearing shorts, I was getting uncomfortable. Hogan, on the other hand, seemed to not even break a sweat. It was always winter at Stalag 13, I thought as I observed the colonel observing the riding public. A few people, older baby boomers mostly, glanced at him as if he looked familiar, but then went back to whatever they were doing.

"Don't people talk to one another anymore in person," Hogan whispered. "Or just stay quiet and think?"

"I know," I whispered back. "They're all attached to their phones."

"It's really annoying. I don't want to listen to their conversations."

"I agree. This is our stop." We followed the crowd to the escalator, which by some miracle, was working, and went up to the first level. "You got your ticket?"

Hogan nodded. "Okay. You need it to get out, like I told you. Watch me." I fed the ticket into the gate, and the barrier opened. Hogan copied me and exited as well. We walked over to the next set of escalators. In a few moments we were whisked up into the lobby of the Embassy Suites, and a few minutes after that, I opened the door to my suite. "Oh, I'm so hot." I kicked off my sandals, and poured myself a glass of ice water. "You want a drink?"

"No. I want to find the internet." Hogan walked over to the window in the bed area, and spent a few moments looking outside. Satisfied, I guess, that there was nothing suspicious on the sidewalks of Bethesda, he closed the curtains and then stared at the television. "Well, that's not what I expected." He looked around the back of the screen. "Where's the tube?"

"They are flat screens now. I think they run on plasma or something like that. Don't ask. They weigh nothing, which is awesome." I opened up the bottom drawer of the dresser and removed my laptop. "This is a computer. We'll sign on and see if we can get in touch with someone."

Hogan hung over my shoulder, not missing a second of my computer usage. He was actually a man of few words, which I found surprising, until I had to remind myself that this was not my Hogan; it was their Hogan. The _real_ Hogan.

I pulled up the fanfiction site. "Okay, Colonel. I'll send private messages to some of these writers, and I can give them my cell phone number and my email. I don't have all of their private emails. You'll have to tell me what to say, and make it plausible. Something that will convince them that this is for real and isn't a joke. After that I can check the yahoo groups and see if I can get some of the emails for the few that posted there."

"What's a yahoo group?"

"A chat room. I'll explain later. So what do you want me to say?"

"Let me think." Hogan began pacing. While he did that, I checked my mail, and read a new chapter in a

story I was following. He snapped his fingers. "I got it. This is what you'll say."

* * *

(1) Some of the authors involved with the original Mary Sue Experiments.


	3. There's Trouble It's - (Tuttle4077)

**There's Trouble. It's-**

**Written by Tuttle4077**

**2019**

Swimsuit shopping Is. The. Worst.

Swimsuits offer no forgiveness. If you've got a flaw (and who doesn't?) a swimsuit will amplify it. There's no hiding from yourself in one.

The only thing worse than regular swimsuit shopping is swimsuit shopping while pregnant- at least at this stage of pregnancy. I don't have that cute, firm, round belly that people fawn over and want to touch. Nope. Not there yet. Right now I just look like I've eaten one too many tacos one too many times. I'm at the point where people want to ask if I'm pregnant, but the risk of getting it wrong and causing offense is too high so they just kind of give me scrutinizing glances.

It's the worst.

Apparently everything is "the worst" lately.

As terrible an ordeal as swimsuit shopping is, I had recently stretched out my old swimsuit, foolishly thinking that my body hadn't changed _that_ much yet. And since summer was warming up (although I had heard reports of snow outside of Calgary a few days earlier), I figured I shouldn't put off a replacement for too long. So I dropped my monster off with my folks and headed out to the mall in search of a new one.

The mall was pretty quiet, considering that it was _the_ mall. And yet, the whole time, I felt like someone was watching me. I brushed it off as my insecurity making me think that _everyone_ was watching me fail at finding a new suit.

Still, it wasn't a new sensation. For the past week or so, the same creepy feeling had tickled the back of my brain, sometimes even making the hair on the back of my neck stand up. But whenever I tried to spy someone watching me, I always came up empty.

Was paranoia a pregnancy symptom?

Sure, why not?

The feeling came and went as I made my way through the mall, from store to store, without finding what I was looking for. Eventually I gave up on my quest, at least for the moment, and headed for the food court. I got myself a sandwich and chocolate milk and sat alone at a table.

I had just finished and was getting up to put my tray away when that feeling came back. And then, suddenly, someone bumped into me. Hard. There was a clatter as my tray and the other person's tray fell to the floor. But a sharp pain in my upper arm prevented me from picking it up right away. It almost felt like I had been stabbed with something.

"Sorry about that," the man mumbled.

"Oh yeah, no, I'm sorry," I replied. I'm Canadian. Canadians apologize, even if they're the ones who were bumped. "Here, let me get that." I shook my arm to try and get rid of the pain and dropped down to my knee, gathering the litter onto a tray. The man, however, just grunted and walked off.

Rude.

Whatever.

I blew a raspberry and continued to pick up the scattered wrappers and containers. But then something caught my eye. Under a sandwich wrapper, there was something shiny. Maybe that jerk face had dropped it when he bumped into me. Part of me told me to just leave it- would serve him right if he lost something valuable after the way he acted. But that wouldn't have been very nice, and just because he had no manners didn't mean I shouldn't do the right thing. I'd run and give it back to him.

So I brushed aside the wrapper and grabbed whatever it was before I had really processed what it was. Maybe if I had taken a moment, I would have recognized the gold watch-like device for what it was. Or maybe not. Who really thinks they're going to randomly encounter a time travel device in their everyday life?

I heard the popping sound and smelled the smoke a moment before I dropped onto the ground with a thud.

"What the-" I said at the same time as someone else close by. I blinked and looked. A group of men had apparently abandoned their laundry and were looking at me in surprise.

"I thought the colonel was sending them back," one said.

"Maybe it's a new one."

"Quick, before the guards come."

Before I knew it, two men grabbed my arms and hauled me to my feet and ushered me into their barracks.

It took a moment for my brain to catch up with what was happening.

I was back.

Somehow, for some reason, I had time traveled back to World War Two. To Germany. To Stalag 13.

I had been here before.

Ten, eleven years ago. I had almost written it off as a dream. A weird, traumatic dream. Almost. Either way, it was an experience that I buried deep down because normal people just didn't time travel and back then I had desperately wanted to be a normal person with a normal life. I still did.

"You okay?" One of the men asked. I looked up at him, but didn't recognize him. An "extra". From the stripes on his shoulder, he was a corporal.

"I think so," I replied, unevenly. The truth was, my head was spinning and I felt nauseous. And my arm hurt like the dickens, even though I was sure I hadn't landed on it. I didn't remember feeling like this the last time I had time travelled, but then again, the last time I wasn't pregnant. If the mere sight of a bottle of Vidalia onion dressing could make me hurl, then being thrown through time and space could definitely make me a little queasy.

The corporal nodded and looked to the door, where another prisoner was keeping watch. "Any goons outside?" he asked. The other prisoner shook his head. Turning back to me, the corporal studied me for a moment. "You another author?"

"Ummm. Yes? And no. I mean, I am an author, but not _another_ author." Just how long had it been since I had last been there? For me it had been over a decade. For them? It could have been a day, a week, a year, or any amount of time in between. The corporal met my answer with a raised eyebrow. With a little sigh, I continued. "I'm Tuttle4077."

"That sounds familiar," said one of the other prisoners.

Someone snapped his fingers. "The French maid!"

"What? But she's down in the tunnels!"

My heart bucked. "What?" I was here. Or, rather, my old self was here?

"The Colonel's sending them all home now. Geez. What the hell is going on?"

"I dunno, but we better get her over to Barracks Two and fast," the corporal said. "We'd take you through the tunnels, but we're the only lousy barracks without an entrance."

Ah, Barracks Four. Just as well. I didn't know what would happen if I met my younger self. The fabric of time and space might just unravel and/or the universe would explode.

"Coast is clear."

"All right, let's go. This way Miss." The corporal took my arm and hurried me out of the barracks and across the compound to Barracks Two. As we rushed along, I took in the surroundings. It was all so surreal, if only because it was so familiar. Not only because I had seen the compound a million times while watching the show, but I had actually been there before. The smell of pine in the air, the stench of dirty men, the whiff of the latrines, they all served to trigger my half-faded memories and bring them into sharp focus.

Oh gosh, I was here!

The corporal gave the door a courtesy knock before opening it and ushering me in. I immediately recognized Goldman sitting at the table and couldn't help but grin. None of the core team was there though. Probably down in the tunnels saying their goodbyes.

"What's this?" Goldman asked. "Miss Tuttle?"

"That's me," I confirmed with a nod. Although I suppose I was Missus Tuttle now.

Goldman cocked his head to the side as he studied me, a confused look on his face. If he had indeed seen me only a short time before, it would be hard to reconcile the differences. I was older, my hair was slightly shorter, my face wasn't quite so fresh, and I had gained weight. Though the differences were not dramatic, I was certainly not the same person I was in 2008.

"But-"

I threw my hands up. "I don't know. One minute I was at the mall, the next I was here!"

"You better get the Colonel," the corporal said.

Goldman nodded and got up from his seat and opened the tunnel entrance. "Colonel! There's trouble. It's Tuttle."

"Tuttle?" I faintly heard Colonel Hogan say in confusion. A moment later his head appeared as he climbed up the ladder. "What do you mean? What kind of trouble? We just sent her-" Colonel Hogan paused halfway through swinging his leg over the side of Kinch's bed frame. "Oh boy."

I sheepishly waved at him. "Hi. I'm back. I guess."

Hogan stepped over the bunk and straightened, his keen eyes never leaving me and he studied me intently. "It _is_ you," he finally pronounced after a moment. "But-" he looked back down the tunnel, then back at me. "All right, what's going on?" he asked seriously.

Again, I threw my hands up. "Colonel, honestly I don't know. It's been _ten years_ since I was last here. Eleven, actually. I have no idea why I'm here, or how I'm here. I just am."

Hogan's eyebrow arched skeptically. He might have said something, but was interrupted by the noise of the others coming up the ladder.

"Did Goldman say something about Tuttle?" It was Carter.

"Maybe they sent us another picture. Or a note?" LeBeau speculated.

Kinch reached the top first and paused when he saw me. "Holy cats."

"Holy cats? What is it, Kinch?" Carter asked.

Through their chatter, Hogan looked more and more impatient. "Just get up here, will ya?" he ordered.

Kinch quickly climbed off the ladder, followed by the others in short order. They all seemed stunned for a minute, mimicking Hogan's earlier actions by looking from me, down the tunnel, then back to me again.

"Tuttle, you're back!" Carter cried.

"Blimey! We just got rid of you lot," Newkirk said, somewhat crossly.

"I saw them disappear with my own eyes!" LeBeau confirmed.

"All right, hold it, hold it," Hogan said, motioning for them to pipe down. "Apparently it's been over ten years since she was here last."

The others looked surprised, but quickly recovered. "But we just saw her five minutes ago," Carter argued.

"That's time travel for you," I said with a shrug.

"Take a seat, Tuttle," Hogan ordered. "And tell me exactly what happened before you got here." I quickly relayed what had happened at the mall. It was a short story, but as I told it, I realized that there was more to it than just a mere accident or coincidence.

"Did you recognize this man who dropped the watch?" Hogan asked. I shook my head. "But apparently he knew you."

"It would've been too much of a coincidence if he didn't," I agreed. "So he... targeted me specifically? But why?"

Hogan grabbed his elbows and stuck out his lip.

"Maybe someone in the future doesn't like us. Those birds nearly sank the whole operation the last time they showed up," Newkirk groused. "Probably sent them back to finish the job."

Hogan looked over his shoulder at him and raised an eyebrow, as if Newkirk's comment had sparked an idea in his brain. But whatever it was, he didn't share. Instead he shook his head. "It doesn't matter. We have the watch down in the tunnels. We'll just send you back to when and where you came from."

"Sounds good to me," I said. The idea of sticking around here longer than I had to didn't appeal to me. Last time I got myself into a bit of trouble- and Carter too. I had convinced him to take me along to blow up a train. The whole experience was traumatizing. And poor Carter got chewed out something awful. It turned out blowing up that train had saved a lot of lives, but either way, the less time I spent here, in the middle of a war, the better.

"Colonel, what's to keep whoever sent her back from just doing it again?" Kinch asked.

"Hmmm, you've got a point there, Kinch," Hogan said.

"Why don't you make a note to yourself to tell the CIA, or whatever intelligence agency exists right now, that they need to send someone to guard me in the future. June 2019. That's the good thing about knowing what'll happen in the future- you can stop it. Actually, you should probably tell them to wait until I disappear and then reappear because if they stop that guy from sending me back, then you wouldn't know you needed to stop him and then there would be a temporal paradox and-" I held my head and shook it. "Oi. Temporal mechanics makes my head hurt."

"Rambling aside," Hogan said somewhat impatiently, "that's a decent idea. Or at least it's better than no idea."

"What if she's not the only one who turns up?" Kinch asked.

"We'll send them home too," Hogan replied. "LeBeau, Carter, take Tuttle down to the tunnels and send her on her way."

"Sure thing, Colonel. Miss Tuttle?" Carter held out his hand for me. I took it and he helped me onto the ladder. "Watch yourself."

"I've got it," I assured him and quickly climbed down. He and LeBeau followed. The watch was sitting on Kinch's desk. Carter put on a pair of thick gloves and grabbed it, turning the dial. "When are you going back to?" he asked.

I told him the date and location.

"Make sure you get it right," LeBeau said.

"I got it, I got it," Carter said. "There. Should be good now." He held the watch out to me. "It was nice to see you again, Miss Tuttle. Pop in anytime. Well, actually, don't. The Colonel wouldn't be happy."

I laughed. "You're telling me! Listen, you guys take care of yourselves. And please be careful." I didn't know what the future held for the heroes- why oh why didn't the series have a legitimate ending? I assumed they would make it through the war, but really, anything could happen.

"Do not worry. We will be fine," LeBeau said confidently.

"Yeah, we'll be alright. You take care too," Carter said.

"Thanks," I said with a smile. I offered them a little salute and reached out to touch the watch.

Nothing.

No pop.

No smoke.

No mall.

Wait. There was something.

Pain shot down my arm and my head pounded to the beat of a thousand drums. The corners of my vision darkened and I suddenly found it hard to breathe. With a strangled gasp, I pulled my hand away, wobbled, and dropped in a dead faint.


	4. Chicken Show (Old English Game)

**Chicken Show**

**Written by Old English Game**

Run. Run. Hurryhurryhurryhurryhurry!

It is a very bad idea to try to get your hair up while you're walk-jogging, with a heavy backpack on one arm and a bunch of notebooks under the other, but that was what I was doing. All the while panicking, I will add, because I was supposed to be across the fairgrounds in exactly two minutes, which meant dodging people, booths, tents, animals, vendors, a clown or two, and, inevitably, clumps of people who thought that the very best way to be a good American citizen would be to spread out as far across the path as humanly possible, while walking at the agonizing speed of a turtle. Actually, judging from the small animal races I had zoomed past a few seconds ago, slower than a turtle.

In front of me was one of those groups of people. A family of - what was it, eight? Nine! - all wearing bright orange (which was a good idea, in case they lost someone, my mom always did that when we were younger - but I digress) - who had made a convenient human fence across the tarmac. It appeared that much of the surrounding crowd was beginning to lose their patience, and if you know people you know they don't have much patience to begin with. Nobody has manners anymore - which is stupid of me to say since I, in my teenage years, have yet to experience "the good old days" - but you know how everyone's moms and grandmas talk about how things used to be, when everyone was nice to each other and knew each others' names, and where they went to school and who married who and all that gossip, and now I'm rambling again.

I stopped, ducked to the side between a recycling bin and a giant tree, and promptly crashed into another fellow who must have had the same idea. Not even like a bump-shoulders, either. We full-on collided. My notebooks and pens and various books about chickens went flying, as did the contents of his bag, which turned out to be a dozen or so diapers, tupperwares full of cheerios, and various other child-rearing paraphernalia that went hither and yon. Something jabbed me hard in the arm - it was either a bee sting, a pen, or one of the several little plastic kiddie utensils that were quickly crushed underfoot.

"Sorry!" We both exclaimed at the same time, and quickly set about chasing down parts of my drafts and his baby supplies, which got kicked about by everyone passing by and picked up by exactly none of them. What did I tell you about peoples' manners these days?

"I didn't even see you there," he said, looking a little red. Or it might have just been because he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, one of the polyester kinds that gets super pilly after the first wash. Why was he wearing long sleeves?

Well, I was too, I told myself, and then myself reasoned back, well, I'm wearing showmanship attire, and he's just wearing long sleeves for the heck of it. Who does that in ninety-something degree weather?

Knock it off, I told myself, and reached for something else.

My fingers scraped against rough gravel.

The temperature dropped thirty degrees.

The noise disappeared so quickly it made my head spin.

I took in a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding - had I been holding it?

I tightened my grip on my bag, and my fingers creaked like I hadn't moved them in ages.

I stood up, and my back ached the same way.

Do not panic, I told myself.

I took a deep breath, and slowly turned around.

A plain gravel road stretched on to the horizon. On either side was a ditch, and then several feet of wild grass and weeds, and then a thick forest. The sun was almost to the horizon and the sky was tinted just a little bit yellow.

"Sweet mercy," I whispered.

After that, I wanted to say a few more choice words, but I couldn't make anything more come out.

So I took a step. And another.

As I kept walking, I wished mundanely I'd worn my sneakers instead of borrowing my mother's black dress shoes. They rubbed on my heel.

After a while, it occurred to me to check my phone - it was gone. It must have fallen out, or else I had been transported to an alternate reality and cell phones were confiscated at the gate.

Great! I had, in my bag, all of a single notebook, a half a broken pencil, and a squished granola bar at the very bottom, amidst a sea of crumbs and a whole bunch of those little torn-off bits from notebook paper. And two hair ties.

"This is lovely," I said, a little scared when my voice wavered. I pinched myself again - I'd been doing it every ten seconds, it seemed, since I'd went to pick up that - bugger, I couldn't even remember what it was. A little gold bobble of some sort?

Then I heard an engine.

Oh, help. Thank goodness.

It could have been bad help, it occurred to me, but then it occurred to me that bad help was probably better than wherever I was right now. So I stuck my thumb out.

A little van came into view. It was _old._ And I don't even mean old, like, that thing's been sitting in storage for the past fifteen years old. I mean old, like, this is an heirloom from your great-great-great-great grandfather old. Like someone had just stolen it from a museum display old.

The guy who stopped the truck looked even older.

He swiped a hand across his eyes, and blinked at me, and then looked me up and down and up again.

"Hi," I said, "I, um… I'm lost," Gotten flung to another reality in an eighth of a second, more like it. But I didn't want to scare the guy.

Apparently, I did anyway. His face paled, "_Nicht anders!"_

"I'm sorry?" I took a step back.

And noticed the lettering on his truck. _Oskar Schnitzer. Tierarzt._

Then a lot of things made sense. Not everything, mind you, but a few key questions of mine were suddenly answered. The Mary Sues.

"Oh, dear," I said aloud.

"You're a writer, aren't you?" He sighed.

I nodded apologetically, "Yes."

He sighed and ran his hand down his face, and closed his eyes for a second, and then waved his hand next to him, "Get in."

I climbed into the passenger side, and then a thought occurred to me, "Wait, you're a good guy, right?"

He raised an eyebrow, "You should have thought of that before you get in the car," His English wasn't very good, but I wasn't about to correct it.

"Sorry," I said.

"I take you to Colonel Hogan," He shoved the truck into gear.

"Thanks."

He grunted, and didn't make much conversation.

It was only a few minutes, but I don't think there was a single spring, cushion, or other like device in his vehicle. When he stopped along the road (there seemed to be an extensive stretch of wood in this area, because the scenery appeared to be the exact same), and climbed out, it took me a few minutes to regain circulation in my rear as I hobbled after him.

In another few minutes, he stopped, and pointed, and said, "About twenty yards that way, I suppose you know about their tree stump?" I didn't recall if he was involved with the previous time-travel adventure, but apparently he'd heard the tale.

"Yes," I said, "Thanks very much for the ride. Sorry if I caused you any trouble."

He gave me an odd look, and turned and went back the way he came.

I watched him go, and then realized it was probably dangerous to be standing out here in the woods, and made my way in the direction he'd pointed.

I didn't actually have the sweeping view of the stalag like in the show (in the show… how had I not dropped dead from panic yet?), but I could see bits through the trees. I didn't linger.

The tunnel was also much deeper than the show let on, which did make sense, and by the time I'd reached the bottom the temperature had plummeted yet again.

I had to try to make myself as tiny as possible to fit through the narrow tunnels. There wasn't very much light, either, in fact I had no idea what was giving me just enough light to make out the grayish outline of where I was going.

"Hello?" I called finally, when it started to get a little lighter; there had to be someone by the light source, right?

Nothing, and then, "Did you hear that?"

"Yes."

"Hi?" I called again, "Umm… hello?"

"It's a lady! She's down this way," The light brightened and suddenly burned into my eyes.

"Eek! Please don't," I held up my hands, one to block the light and the other up in surrender.

"Oh, bother," Someone sighed. An English accent. I assumed it was Newkirk, but I couldn't really see through the light.

It did diminish, though, and as I was blinking away spots someone grabbed me by the arm and tugged me down the tunnel.

There was a tiny room, and there, in the flesh, was James Kinchloe. At least, I assumed it was him. It certainly _looked_ like him - or, rather, looked like Ivan Dixon, I should say. He even had the mustache.

"Hi," I said. I wanted to say something along the lines of "I'm Caroline, great to meet you," but if I said that I would end up fangirling (eugh) all over him and I did not want to embarrass myself like that.

"You another author?" The guy next to me asked. Looking over, it wasn't actually Newkirk. This guy was shorter, and had dark hair, and a slightly different accent. He was kind of cute.

Nope! Nope.

"Yeah," I said, "Sorry. I didn't really… mean to… you know. End up here."

"We figured as much," Kinch said. Wait, I should say Sergeant Kinchloe. I've never actually met him before, "What year are you from?"

"2019," I said, "I heard about the other time-travellers."

The Englishman shuddered.

"That being said," I went on, "I don't suppose you happen to still have the little gold doodad that sent them all back? I'd love to stay, this is probably the opportunity of a lifetime and I'll probably regret it as soon as I get back, but I'll bet you want to get rid of me and I have a chicken show in -," I glanced at my wrist, which did not have a watch on it, "Well, about half an hour ago, actually."

"Chicken show?" The Englishman repeated.

"Yes," I said, "We pose chickens and talk about chickens, and there's a plastic trophy for whoever knows the most about their chickens." From the look on his face, I didn't have to worry about any awful dramatic time-travel romances.

"Anyways!" I exclaimed, "How 'bout it?"

Sergeant Kinchloe raised an eyebrow, "Well, miss, that's the problem."

Oh, crud.


	5. Spitting is Not Polite (Abracadebra)

**Spitting Is Not Polite**

**Written by Abracadebra**

I am so busy I could spit. Clients. Kids. Taxes. Buying. Selling. Packing. Moving. Blah blah blah. Right now, I am so sick of "adulting" that I could spit.

Oh, jeez, listen to me. I just wanted to spit twice in one paragraph. That's not nice. It's also too repetitive to constitute good writing, and it's not hygienic. In real life, I promise, I DO NOT SPIT. I recoil when people spit. I am definitely an adult in all respects. You can tell because I don't spit, I pay my bills, I vote, I have a mortgage, an accountant and a lawyer, I teach my kids manners including not spitting, I have opinions about county budgetary priorities, and on and on.

I'm just under a little stress right now, OK? I have a ton of responsibilities. And yeah, I'm babbling.

Amid the unrelenting stress and anxiety that is my life, fanfiction is my oasis of calm. It is so absorbing. It takes me out of myself for an hour a day. OK, maybe two or three hours on the weekends. It is such a great release from that pesky thing called reality.

That's exactly why I read Hogan's Heroes fanfic. I mean, think about that show. The premise is preposterous. The characters are caricatures. The war happened, but those hijinks at Stalag 13 never did; that's impossible. But it's so much fun to imagine pulling one over on the bad guys. It doesn't hurt that all the guys are so cute and hilarious. And mostly dead now, but still…cute and hilarious. Especially Newkirk. Do I even have to specify that? I didn't think so.

So this morning I took an hour's break at my local coffee shop, ordered my caffè latte, and grabbed a table. Then I settled in for a little stress relief: I typed "Hogan Fanfic" into the browser on my phone. Might as well see what's up. Any new stories? Any good forum topics?

Well, my attempt to relax backfired, because as soon as I logged in, I got annoyed with myself. Look at all these fantastic D-Day stories in response to a challenge I had personally proposed. And did I write even one of them? No, I did not. I hardly even had a chance to read them, because all that adulting caught up with me with a vengeance. Boy, I was irritated now.

That was when a guy brushed up against me. Oh, come on, Buster, I thought. There's plenty of room. You don't need to bump into people to get a table. My arm was smarting where he nailed me.

He sat at the table next to me and smiled. Oh great, he's being nice. I half-smiled, half-grimaced back at him. He slurped down his coffee fast and then jumped up and ran out the door. What the heck? I thought. Calm down, buddy. I came here to relax a little; you might want to try it.

Then I saw it. He'd left something shiny behind on the table. I looked around, but no one else had noticed. I sighed. Fine. I was a Girl Scout AND a Girl Scout leader. "Help other people at all times" was part of my makeup, even when I was feeling permanently ticked off, which I was. So I heaved myself out of my comfortable seat, grabbed the watch, and made for the door.

That was when the room started to spin and lights seemed to swirl. I was falling.

When I lifted myself up, I wasn't in the coffee shop anymore. I was face-down in dirt. But there was no sunlight, only the acrid smell of an oil lamp burning. I craned my neck around and saw soot gathering on the rough walls of an ill-lit tunnel. The air was dank and ripe with the smell of unwashed men. And believe me, I know that smell. I worked in a newsroom.

I was a little woozy, having landed hard and in such a strange place. I pushed myself up and sat there cross-legged for a moment, and then I heard voices moving toward me. Male voices, and one that was female.

A quartet rounded the corner and hovered over me as I struggled to my feet. I'm not young. Getting up off the floor ain't as easy as it used to be, believe me. So I was relieved when the smallest man of the group extended a hand to help me to my feet.

"Thank you," I said with as much grace as I could muster under the ridiculous circumstances.

"Pas de quoi, Madame," the short man replied with what I took to be a genuine smile. Then he turned to the woman in the group. "Is she one of yours?" he asked. "I don't remember her from last time."

"She must be one of the newer writers," said the woman. "Don't tell me; let me guess. Abracadebra?"

"How the heck did you know?" I replied. "Who are you? And where are we?"

"The 'Ohio University Mom' t-shirt," she replied with a warm smile. "I'm Tuttle. And you've just landed in Stalag 13."

I didn't hear another word she said. I got out the words "Was that LeBeau? Do I get to meet Newkirk?" and then my head started spinning. Next thing I knew, I was face down and breathing in dirt again, and listening to a very annoyed English voice saying, "I'll go tell the Guv."

That was him! I wanted to meet him even if I was awkwardly passed out.

"You must be Newkirk!" I said enthusiastically as I sat back up. "Wow, I can't believe it's really you." His eyes were as green as I imagined—or was that blue? It was hard to tell in the tunnel.

He just rolled his green-blue eyes at me. "Bleedin' new authors. As long as they're dropping dames on us, couldn't they at least send us a younger, thinner one?"

"Hey!" I snapped at him. "Who do you think you are, mister? Don't you dare talk to me like that! I'm old enough to be your mother!"

"That's my point exactly," he snarled at me. "Now sit down and be quiet while we figure out what to do with you lot."

"I am sitting, in case you didn't notice!" I told him. I didn't care for his attitude one bit, but my head was still fuzzy. So I glared at him, took the seat he pointed me to and suppressed the urge to spit out the dirt.


	6. Curiosity Killed the Author (LE Wigman)

**Curiosity Killed the Cat... Err, Author?**

**Written by L.E. Wigman**

Do you know those moments when something you thought was ridiculously improbable but actually turned out to be true? Well, in June of 2019, I had one of those moments to the extreme!

Let me start at the beginning, my name is L. E. Wigman and I write fanfiction. I know what you're thinking... L. E., I already know this. I'm on the site right now... I hear you, but if a story's worth telling, it's worth telling right.

I read way more fanfiction than I write. I browse the forums and the archives looking for new stories, which may give me some inspiration to write. (Or more accurately start a dozen new stories that takes me months or years to finish.)

The important part of my tale starts with the return of a writer, Tuttle4077. She and some other writers collaborated years ago to write a story called, The Mary Sue Experiments. I read a few chapters this spring and it gave me quite a chuckle. The very idea of Hogan's Heroes being real! And time travel? What a laugh, but it was well written and quite enjoyable, so I bookmarked it in my favorites to finish reading after the Papa Bear Awards. I tell you, I wish I had finished it. It might have prepared me for what I was about to experience that summer evening...

I had been lying on my bed; just puttering around the forums and playing on my e-mail. I had a couple of stories that I was beta-ing for others (which I still need to finish, by the way), when my mom hollered up the steps. They were going shopping and out to dinner, did I want to go?

No. I need to get this done.

Then she said there was a package for me on the table and if I needed anything while they were out to call or text. Yes, I still get this instruction, despite being 23 years of age.

I tried to focus on the task at hand. I had to get this finished; I promised to send it tonight. But... I don't get packages. Like ever. It just doesn't happen. I don't buy things online. I don't enter contests with cool prizes. Nobody - and I mean NOBODY - knows me well enough to just send me something. Which brings us to another thing you need to know about me: I have an insatiable curiosity. Which means it was less than ten minutes before I gave in and ambled down the steps.

It was a small package - about the size of a shoe box. No return address. Curious, I thought as I tried to cut the side of the tape with my thumbnail. Failing that, I carried the package to the kitchen. Slicing the tape down the length with a knife, I pulled the cardboard open to reveal the box was filled to the brim with packing peanuts. It's a prank. I looked over my shoulder, half-expecting some guy to jump out, saying, 'Smile. You're on Candid Camera!'

Digging into the package, I rummaged through the peanuts before jolting back and sucking in a deep breath. I'd poked the middle finger of my right hand. There was a spot of blood on the vary tip and it throbbed a little.

Blast!

I rubbed the blood away and massaged the area for a moment, contemplating my next move. I picked up the entire box and was about to turn it over.

**_Hail, hail the gang's all here._**

My mind briefly registered our musical doorbell, as my dog began to bark and then howl. "Hush, Dutch!" I snapped in a lower tone as I set the box on the counter and went to the side entrance. "Yes?" I asked, after opening the screen door partially.

"I found this beside the road in your driveway," he said.

Looking back, I'm not sure I could tell you exactly what he looked like. Except that he was a little taller than I - five foot nine or maybe ten - and skinny... so skinny! He stood away from the door and held out an old, gold watch in his gloved hand.

"No." I shook my head. "I don't think that belongs..."

He smiled with perfectly straight, white teeth. "It is not mine. Take it and perhaps someone will come looking for it," he said, holding it closer to me.

Against my better judgment, I stepped through the door and reached my hand out at the same time. I'd no sooner brushed my fingers over the item when I heard a loud popping noise, not unlike the fireworks they like to shoot off at the high school football field. The sun, which had been lazily drifting toward the western horizon, went dark as I stumbled forward.

Landing on my hands and knees, I braced for the pain one expects from pavement. What I didn't expect was dampness and the distinct smell of wet dog. I didn't have time to process when a dog's growl made me pause. Dutch doesn't growl. He's a Springer Spaniel. It isn't his thing.

I raised my eyes up slowly toward the growl. Instead of my cuddly, soft Spaniel, there were three German Shepherds. They stood in a formation that resembled a triangle. Two in front, almost even with each other, and one slightly behind and in between. The one on the left had a black mask over his eyes and halfway down his muzzle. His teeth were bared, and as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could see his stance was tense and quite pouncey-looking. My breathing was quick, shallow, and quite erratic.

"Was machst du da drinnen?!"

I heard the shout come from behind me, but I was frozen in place - sure that one wrong move would certainly spell out my grizzly demise.

"Weißt du nicht, dass diese Hunde beißen werden? Gefangene dürfen NICHT in den Zwinger!" the voice continued, clearly a man's and on the deeper side. I heard the rattling of metal and the creaking of hinges. The dogs backed up as the voice directed sharp commands - at least I think that's what they were. I was seized roughly by my right arm and jerked up to my feet, all the while the voice droned on. My eyes were still on the Shepherds until I was through the gate and the door was shut.

The man was still gripping me, but I breathed a shuddering breath of relief. Looking around, my relief returned to panic. This was not home. This was not even daylight. It's funny how those sorts of thoughts don't occur to one when they find themselves nose to muzzle with a vicious dog.

I stared at the dark, dreary-looking camp. What I could see from the spotlights that drifted over the compound with rhythmic precision was exactly like the photographs from the Wikipedia pages... only darker and more real. I felt a tug on my arm and turned. It was Schultz! At least, I think it was he. The hair was darker than John Banner's, but other than that the CBS casting department was really the tops!

He was speaking to me in heavily-accented English now. What did I think I was doing? Prisoners out after dark could be shot! Did I not realize what that would mean for him? And finally something about Colonel Hogan dealing with this, no need to bother the Big Shot.

I was pulled along as he spoke to a long building with the 'Barrake 2' sign posted beside the door. I absently wondered if the inside looked like the TV set. He opened the door, pushing it inward with a bang. "You stay here!" Schultz snapped, firmly guiding me into the room of men before releasing my arm.

He didn't speak to anyone else, or even acknowledge the sharp intake of breath from the building's inhabitants; he just left. And I just stood rubbing my arm which was smarting all the way down to my fingers. I stared at that wooden door like an idiot, trying my darndest not to give into the lump in my throat. It's amazing how quickly fear and adrenaline can melt into tears.

"Olsen," said the man closest to me, who looked for all the world like Sergeant Baker. "Go tell the Colonel we have a new one."

Instinct turned my head right to the bunk just as it raised. Even though I knew about it, had seen it and written it a gazillion times, I felt my jaw go slack. Whatever was going on, I sure as heck wasn't in Kansas anymore!


	7. A Brave Little Guinea Pig (Tuttle4077)

**A Brave Little Guinea Pig**

**Written by Tuttle4077**

The lights were dim, but even so, it hurt when I opened my eyes. I quickly shut them again and held a palm to my temple, massaging it slightly. My head was throbbing and I felt feverish.

"I feel like death," I groaned as I tried to push myself onto my elbow.

"You almost _were_ death," a voice said.

I gasped, half in surprise, and half in fear of the unfamiliar voice. I bolted upright and looked over to the voice.

Wait. The voice wasn't so unfamiliar. It was Colonel Hogan.

The sudden movement, and the rush of memories that reminded me of where and when I was, made the pounding in my head worse. The world span and tears clawed at the corners of my eyes. My stomach rolled and before I could stop myself I threw up over the side of the bed. There was a startled squawk, but I couldn't tell who had made it.

A pair of hands grabbed me and gently lay me back down. "It is all right. You will be all right."

LeBeau.

My very own mother hen.

That was the last thought I had before I fell back into darkness.

* * *

I felt somewhat better the next time I woke up. Well, at least my head wasn't pounding. I did feel terribly weak though.

Tentatively I opened my eyes. When I didn't immediately pass out again, I looked around. It took me a few minutes to remember what had happened and when I did, I let out a groan. I did NOT want to be stuck in the past. Again.

But I supposed I was here now, and nothing could be done about it at the moment. Hogan would figure out a way to get me home. He always had a plan, even if it took a little while to formulate it. And it had all worked out for the best last time.

With that settled in my mind, I took the opportunity to take stock of myself. I was lying on a stiff, narrow cot (my back was not going to like me when I finally got up), but at least I had a fluffy pillow and a warm blanket. I wondered where they had scrounged that up. I realized too that I was in a hospital gown. And there was an IV attached to me, connected to a tall pole. I titled my head as I regarded it and the bottle it held. The bottle had what I could only assume was German writing all over it.

Ah. They must've liberated it from the local hospital.

Which meant I must've been out for a while. Long enough to require some intravenous nutrients, anyway. And what was this?

Yep. A bedpan.

Well that was just great.

Lovely.

Fantastic.

Hash tag sarcasm.

But I suppose Stalag 13 had its share of medics. Professionals use to that sort of thing.

Still...

The sound of voices wafting into the room caught my attention. I strained to hear them, but couldn't make out what they were saying.

Slowly, cautiously, I sat up. I took it as a good sign that I didn't fall over immediately and that the world stayed relatively stable. I sucked in a breath and tried standing, using the IV pole for support.

When my legs shook under me, I decided this probably wasn't the smartest thing I have ever done. I debated sitting back down, but I was up now and the curiosity got the better of me, so I shuffled myself to the doorway, pulled back the curtain and peered out.

The room I was in was just a little ways off from Kinch's radio room. I could see it from there. The heroes were all gathered, talking in heated tones.

"We cannot risk it," LeBeau said in way of protest.

"I don't see why not. It might have been a fluke is all. The sooner we get these bird on their way, the better. Remember what happened last time?" Newkirk argued. "We nearly didn't pull that off."

"But she's just a kid. What if something happens to her?" Carter countered.

"Oui. What if it is _worse_ for her?" LeBeau agreed.

Hogan, who was leaning against Kinch's desk, grunted. "It's worth the risk. We've got to figure out how to get them home and fast before we've got a baby on our hands."

Ah, well the cat was out of the bag on that one. Although I was sure that if nothing else, they would send me to London long before that happened.

Oh geez. That wasn't a great option either.

I felt a surge of panic at the thought and everything it implied, but forcefully tamped it down and tuned back in to the argument.

"And if it does work, maybe there's something in the future that can get Tuttle home," Newkirk added.

"We can't let her use the watch again," Carter said.

"Yeah, but it might work for the new one. We should at least give her the option," Kinch finally reasoned.

Just who were they talking about? Another author? Probably.

I cleared my throat and the gang looked over to me. LeBeau let out a little huff. "What are you doing up? You should have stayed in bed until someone came to help you."

"I'm fine," I said. They didn't look like they believed me. I didn't blame them. I didn't really believe me either. "What's going on?"

"Another author, we think," Hogan explained. "Does the name Old English Game ring a bell?"

I searched my brain and quickly came up short. "Can't say it does," I finally said.

Hogan grimaced. "What about Prolegomenon?"

I mouthed the name, trying to think. "Wait, I think I've seen that name before. Maybe a new author? Newish? Honestly, I don't know, I just got back in the game a while ago. There are a lot of new names out there. Anyway, what about her?" I assumed it was a her. Most of us were.

Hogan didn't look impressed, and more than a little suspicious. "She popped in the other night. Hitched a ride in with Oskar Schnitzer."

"The vet?" I interrupted. Hogan nodded. "Did you try to send her home?" I asked.

"That's what we've been discussing," Kinch replied. "After what happened to you, we're not sure it's such a good idea."

Yeah well, it wasn't an experience I would recommend.

"What do you think?" Carter asked.

"Me?" They actually wanted my opinion? From the look on Hogan's face, _he_ didn't, but since Carter asked, I figured I should answer. I thought carefully for a minute, and, if I'm honest, my answer was more than a little selfish. If it did work, then there was a chance of getting me home quickly too. It was worth a shot.

"I think Kinch is right. We should give her the option. I mean, what if it was just me? What if there's just a limit on how much you can use the watch? It wouldn't be fair to keep her here if there's a chance to send her home." Of course, if it didn't work, she was in for a world of hurt. I probably should have said no. But... I wanted to go home, darn it!

Yes, very selfish. But, I reasoned, it wasn't just about me. I had a family to get back to. A little girl who needed me. A ticking time bomb in my belly that I desperately didn't want to deliver in the middle of WWII if it could be helped.

So, yes, I was willing to risk Old English Game's discomfort (to put it mildly) if it meant getting home quickly. Or just getting home, period.

"LeBeau, go get her," Hogan ordered. LeBeau nodded and hurried off. Then Hogan turned his attention back to me. "You better sit down before you fall down," he said dryly.

Yeah, I was feeling a little lightheaded. "Maybe I should stay and see what happens?" I ventured.

Hogan looked over at Kinch and cocked his head to the chair behind the desk. Kinch grabbed it and set it in the corner, far from his radio. He still wasn't over my last entrance, apparently. Of course, for him, it had only happened a week or so ago.

Carter came up, took my arm, and helped me shuffle down the hall and into the radio room proper. I sat down with a sigh of relief.

LeBeau returned a moment later, fuming. "She is not there," he reported.

Hogan groaned. "I swear we've got to attach bells to all of you." From the look on his face, he was really thinking of implementing more drastic measures. Chains, maybe.

"Probably off exploring. They can't help themselves," Newkirk groused. "All right, let's go on a fox hunt." He made a little trumpeting sound and beckoned for Carter to follow him. "Me and Cater will go that way."

"LeBeau, Kinch, go down that way. I'll head on down the south tunnel," Hogan said. He pegged me with a pointed glare. "You. Sit. Stay."

"Woof."

I heard Carter snort and I vaguely remembered a similar conversation we had had the last time I was here.

"I mean it," Hogan said forcefully. "Do not touch anything or you'll be spending the rest of your stay in the cooler."

I held my hands up in surrender and tried to look as indifferent as possible. There was nothing of interest here. No sir. "I'll behave."

Hogan grunted, but apparently decided I could be trusted. Or at least he rightly assumed that I didn't have the strength to get out of my chair, even if I wanted to. Satisfied, he motioned for the others to get going before disappearing down a passageway himself.

I sat in silence for a bit, looking about the room. There was not much to see. Kinch's radio. The ladder heading up to Barracks Two. Not much different from the show, or what I remembered from before.

Hey. Wait.

On Kinch's desk I noticed the contents of my purse neatly organized. It had to be mine. I'm not sure anyone else would be toting around diapers, wipes, and enough fruit snacks to feed an army, not to mention the other strange odds and ends I happened to carry around with me on a regular basis.

There was another set of belongings on the table too, neatly stacked. Probably belonged to the other author. I may have a lot of things in my purse, but books about... chickens? were not among them.

I guess I couldn't blame a bunch of spies for being spies. And I was sure anything useful had been confiscated. I scanned the pile again. Yep. Sure enough the spools of thread were gone. I'd bet my bottom dollar that they were stashed somewhere in Newkirk's sewing room. Well, it was easier for me to get more than for him. He was welcome to it. Maybe it would take the sting out of having another batch of authors dropped on his head.

It didn't take too long for the boys to come back. Hogan had a death grip on a young woman's arm. I looked her over, trying to remember if I knew anything about this author, but couldn't come up with anything. She was young, maybe... well a teenager anyway. I was never good at guessing ages. The women in my family all look a lot younger than they actually are- it tends to skew your ability to judge that kind of thing.

"I'm sorry. I was curious!" the girl protested.

Well, I couldn't blame her. It was oh so tempting to explore the tunnels, to see what matched up with the show, fanon, and personal head-canons. It was something else to experience the real live tunnel under the real live Stalag 13. Just thinking about it gave me a bit of a thrill, and I had been here before. The excitement of being here for the first time was enough to make a person plotz!

Hogan wasn't impressed and she knew it. He had probably given her a bit of a tongue lashing when he found her. The girl (Old English Game?) looked over at me. "Oh, hi. You're Tuttle, right? I'm Caroline. Feeling better?"

I nodded. "Alive and kicking."

"All right, here's the deal kid. We've decided it's worth the risk to try to send you back," Hogan said, cutting off the pleasantries.

"But it's up to you," Carter quickly added.

"Right. We're not going to force you," Hogan amended. "You know what happened to Tuttle, but it might just be her. Maybe she used the watch too much. If it works, we can get you home, and if it doesn't..."

"At least we know you won't die," Newkirk said.

"Just might be out of commission for a few days," Kinch finished.

"But if you do go, we need you to contact whatever intelligence agency you have in the future-"

"The CIA?" Caroline supplied helpfully. And then her eyes widened. I could imagine what she was thinking- how, exactly does one go about contacting the CIA? And how do you tell them such a story without being thrown into a padded cell.

"Right. Contact them and let them know about Tuttle. They need to find a way to get her back." Hogan reached over and grabbed a manila envelope off Kinch's desk. Apparently he had already given this plan some thought. "Give them this- it should be proof enough. And keep you out of a prison cell."

Caroline took it tentatively.

"And don't read it," Hogan said, exasperated. He knew us authors too well.

Caroline looked a little overwhelmed, then ponderous, probably weighing her options. I had an attack of conscience as I watched her.

"Wait," I blurted out. "Maybe this isn't such a good idea." Even if she did get home, it was a big job for someone so young. And if it didn't work, then could I handle being responsible for sending her to the infirmary, or worse? "Maybe we should wait to see if someone else shows up. Or-"

"No, I can do it," Caroline said quickly. She paused and then nodded, decision made. "Yeah, I can do it."

"Good," Hogan said. Then after a moment of thought he turned to LeBeau. "Go get Wilson, huh?"

That made my heart sink a little. As Rex from Toy Story would say: great, now I have guilt.

LeBeau nodded and left. He returned a few minutes later with Wilson in tow. The ornery medic gave me a pointed look and I ducked my head sheepishly. Hogan might have been intimidating, but I had a feeling that Wilson was a force to be reckoned with.

"I don't like this," Wilson grumbled, nodding to Caroline.

"We gave her the choice," Hogan said firmly. "She knows the risks. So," he turned to Caroline, "you ready?"

Caroline nodded and took a deep breath. "Wait. My bag? My books?"

"I think your chicken show is over," Kinch said, but he grabbed a bag and shovelled in what I assumed were her belongings. He handed it over and she slung it over her shoulder. "The watch isn't precise. Can't guarantee you'll get back to exactly when and where you left. But we're fairly certain you won't arrive before you left." He titled his head and nodded a few times, as if making sure what he said made sense. Finally, he shook his head and shrugged. "You'll get back to the general time and area, anyway."

Caroline took another breath. "Okay. Okay... Okay, I'm ready."

With a gloved hand, Carter scooped up the watch and held it out to her. She reached her hand forward, hesitated, then touched the watch.

No pop.

No smoke.

Just one girl collapsed in a heap on the ground. Wilson rushed to her and knelt down, checking her over.

The heroes and I all shared a look.

"I think it's safe to say that the watch doesn't work," I said.

"Don't let anyone tell you you're not observant," Newkirk said dryly.

Hogan groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head slightly. "She okay, Wilson?"

"She's alive," Wilson growled. "You shouldn't have let her do it. Sir."

Hogan simply replied, "Risk versus reward."

Wilson just grunted. "Carter?" Carter nodded and helped Wilson carry Caroline into the room I had been in.

I let out a miserable sigh. "Well, now what?"


	8. But Where's Hugh? (Snooky-9093)

**But Where's Hugh?**

**Written by Snooky-9093**

I'm not a Luddite, but right now I was cursing all technology. I recently spent hours the other day trying to figure out why I couldn't sign in to my single-team subscription to . Don't ask. Yes, I'm a martyr. The Mets are awful, but I've been with them through thick and thin…even after moving away from Long Island in 1983. My thoughts turned to 1969…and I sighed. When they actually had a pitching staff. Ah, that was a good year. But I digress.

And then I spent an hour waiting for someone to answer my call and help me, only to find out that the problem was on their end. To make matters worse the guy wasn't very patient with me.

And now here I was at one of the worst places to be on a Saturday morning. An Apple Store, in Christiania Mall, in the summer, when college students are shopping for their new computers.

I stood outside the store waiting for my appointment, which was not easy to make—mind you-the website is not easy to use when it comes to making appointments…Why? Because my iPhone (a very old model) was acting up. All my songs were disappearing and my battery is not lasting as long as it usually does. Probably because I've been using my 5s to cast Mets games to my TV, which drains the battery.

I never wanted a smartphone in the first place. While trying to deal with the very crowded store, I spent 20 minutes cursing my old phone for dying on me over a weekend in the summer of 2017. I really miss my old flip phone that fit nicely in the palm of my hand and reminded me of Captain Kirk.

When my phone died I had no choice but to upgrade to a smartphone. The cool phones with the slider that revealed a nice keyboard, were not being offered anymore by Verizon. Fortunately, a friend had upgraded her iPhone and gave me her old one.

Why is my mind wandering? It's the lights, I guess. Come to think of it, I'm paying for things I did not have to pay for 20 to 25 years ago. The Internet, combined with huge cable and cell phone bills. Finally the store opened. I tried to maneuver my way to the back. Why don't they have any place to sit in this store? They make you sit on high stools with no backs. I'm only 4'10" and almost 60, with a bad back. I hand my iPhone over to the friendly fellow in the pretty shirt.

An hour later, after explaining to me that what I have is not actually a phone but a computer that makes phone calls, I have a new battery and instructions on how to delete every possible thing so my songs will stay put. I was ready to leave the Apple store.

Now I had to maneuver my way to the front through dozens of people. Wow, what a change since the first time I was here back in 2007. There are barely any desktops on display and hundreds of phones with robotic-like kids staring down at all the technology.

I gave an involuntary shudder and then walked my way around to the exit, nodding pleasantly to the security guard standing by the open mall entrance. I was about to exit into the mall when someone lightly bumped into me. "So sorry," he said so politely that I briefly wondered if he was Canadian. I said that's okay. I ignored the light prick on my leg that felt like a mosquito bite. Now finished with my chore, I decided to head to the food court to get a smoothie and then to pop into the Barnes and Noble as a reward for fighting 95 traffic and having to go to a mall in the first place.

After finishing my smoothie (I added kale to it to make it healthier; good for the eyes according to my retinal specialist) I decided to head to the ladies room. It was closed for cleaning, so I went to the family restroom. I opened the door, went in and immediately noticed that someone had dropped something shiny on the floor. I bent down to pick it up. I would take it to security in case someone lost it. As my hand touched it, I heard a popping sound, and I could swear I saw smoke.

I toppled over into what appeared to be not a family restroom in a mall food court, but a pile of leaves. I was so shocked and so out of sorts, I thought I had fainted. Or maybe my eyes gave out. I've been having problems so that wasn't surprising, but it was truly frightening. I closed my eyes and opened them again. Fortunately, it was not a bleed or retinal detachment. I was sure of it. I was still in a pile of leaves. I looked around and then brought myself up to a standing position. Shaking, I turned in a complete circle. I was standing in the woods. There were a lot of twigs and leaves on the ground and it was very quiet I had no idea what happened! Was I dreaming? Was I in a coma? Was I dead? As I was contemplating these questions and wondering why I was so strangely calm, I heard some voices.

"There's another one,"

"Yes I see her. Another older one."

I froze.

"Hello ma'am."

I turned around and found myself standing in front of two young men wearing military uniforms. Well, they looked like military uniforms, but they were pretty beat up. These weren't men. They were boys in their early to mid-20s. A bit thin, but with open friendly faces.

"Hello ma'am, my name is Davis, and this is Saunders. I know you're feeling pretty weird right now, but we've got you. You're safe. Just come with us."

I stared at them again and I squeaked out, "Who are you and where am I?"

Saunders; he appeared to be a sergeant because I detected three stripes on his sleeve, said, "you'll find all that out. Please just come with us. We need to hurry." He held out his hand.

I felt oddly safe with these two boys. Again, I couldn't answer why I felt so calm. It was very weird. I just assumed I was in one of those dreams where you could somehow control what was happening to you. I was looking forward to flying and meeting up with Hugh Jackman (in a tux) in a little while. So, I decided to see where this went.

So, I grabbed my purse, took the sergeant's hand, and I went with the two boys over to a tree stump?

I looked around me again, and in the distance I could see guard towers, fencing, buildings and dogs. I pinched myself and then start laughing. Okay, this is one of those dreams. Having been involved with "Hogan's Heroes" for almost 11 years now, I was not surprised to be in their universe. Personally, I'd rather be on the Starship Enterprise, but I'll go with it.

The sergeant looked at me. "Why are you laughing ma'am?"

I waved my hand. "Continue on. I'm in a dream," I said, not stopping to think that WW2 was not entertaining.

"I can assure you, this is very real." He shook his head, while the other one man shrugged.

"Please follow me down the tree stump. All your questions will be answered once you get down in the tunnels."

Now my calmness seemed to disappear. Something, my instinct I think, was telling me this was not a dream. The boys gently helped me over the rim and down the ladder. Climbing down the ladder terrified me. If this was a dream, why would I be so scared? Quickly, I found myself in the tunnels.

I looked around for any familiar faces and did not see any.

Saunders yelled out, "Kinch. Here's the other one!"

A distinguished- looking black man came over to me." I'm Kinchloe. We don't understand what is going on, but somehow fan fiction authors from the year 2019 are showing up here."

Fortunately, someone had a chair. They placed it near me because I had to sit down.

"Huh?" I blinked.

"Ma'am, you are in Luft Stalag 13 in 1943. What's your penname?"

"Snooky-9093. You mean the "Mary Sue Experiments" were real?"

"'Fraid, so," Kinch answered. He wrote down something on a clipboard. "Can I see your purse?"

I was holding on to the purse so tightly my knuckles were turning white.

"I don't believe this." I had to be dreaming. This was utterly impossible. What was worse, I hadn't read the story in years. I couldn't remember what happened. Except that they sent the authors back. No, this was nonsense. Or was it?

It wasn't. I heard a voice. "Sue, is that you?"

A woman around my age stepped into my line of vision. My mouth hung open in shock. Abracadebra and I (we live only 2-3 hours away from each other) have been trying to meet in person for over two years now. It was if the cosmos was playing games with us. Whenever we tried, something would ruin our plans.

This had to be some cosmic joke! And it was then that I knew with 100 percent certainty, that I, a baby boomer, frustrated Mets fan, Jewish Long Island native, prolific "Hogan's Heroes" Fanfiction author, was here, in Stalag 13, with real soldiers, real Nazis, real guards, and hopefully, because I was so darned scared and there was strength in numbers, real Fanfiction authors. And then I fainted.

* * *

Tuttle's note: We're borrowing a little from The Avenger's Endgame time travel logic. 2019 Sue won't remember anything 2008 Sue did with Colonel Hogan since he won't travel to 2008 until after her 2019 version has spent some time in 1943. Confused? Well, keep reading and I'm sure it'll make sense as you go along.


	9. Fine Ish (Old English Game)

**Fine... "Ish"**

**Written by Old English Game**

I really hadn't _meant_ to end up wandering the tunnels, I'm usually pretty good about following directions (especially from such people as Colonel Hogan, who was much, much more intimidating than Bob Crane), but I just wanted to see what was around the next corner, and the next, and so on and so forth. Turns out the tunnels are fairly extensive, although mostly narrow, dark, and muddy. Certainly not near as grandiose as the show.

I hadn't realized I'd wandered until I heard LeBeau yell, "She's over here!"

"Hey!" Someone latched onto my arm and from the grip I had no doubt who it was, "What's the idea? Are you _trying _to make things hard? Don't they teach you kids anything in the future?"

Turns out that Colonel Hogan can get pretty ticked off pretty easy (which should have been no surprise to me, but was anyway).

"Sorry," I offered, and he growled and kept striding.

He dragged me back through a maze of twists and turns in the dark, and it was actually probably a good thing they'd come after me because I would not have found my way back to civilization. We eventually reached the radio room, me sputtering apologies and him ignoring them.

I was incredibly relieved when I saw Tuttle fully conscious, looking a bit worse for the wear but alive nonetheless. I was banking pretty hard on her being my guide on How to Survive World War Two and Avoid Embarrassing Myself, since she'd been here before.

"Oh, hi," I sighed, "You're Tuttle, right? I'm Caroline." I figured Old English Game was probably a bit long and with my luck I'd forget to respond to it at an important moment, "Feeling better?"

"Alive and kicking," Thank goodness.

Colonel Hogan, in all of his grace, quickly and efficiently beat down my slowly growing optimism and good mood by explaining the situation. Then Carter, Newkirk, and Kinchloe offered their ever-so-optimistic synopses of the situation, and Colonel Hogan started talking about intelligence -

"The CIA?" I knew what that was. How was I supposed to get to the CIA? Well, my substitute math teacher's son… but I also didn't much like my substitute math teacher. That was the first B I'd gotten since - oh, nevermind. Cross that bridge when I get to it.

It registered that Colonel Hogan was talking again, and holding out an envelope.

"And don't read it," What, that thought never crossed my mind. What in the world are you talking about?

I took the envelope and stared at it. Small, not quite square, a bit yellowed. I had a choice.

Well, great. I've never been any good at making choices. I could have stood there for an hour trying to make up my mind (and I still would have ultimately regretted my decision), but I had several people waiting on me, which was also kind of terrifying.

Well, I mean, I was mostly certain that I probably wasn't going to die. Besides, I kinda wanted to get home, and it was worth the risk. Right? Probably. Mostly.

Oh, heck with it.

"Yeah," I said, "I can do it."

"Good," Hogan said decisively. He certainly didn't have any trouble, "Go get Wilson."

Whale of a confidence booster right there.

In the few minutes we waited, it suddenly occurred to me - I wrote about Wilson. Suddenly I was quite nervous that I'd gotten it all wrong, what if he wasn't the cynical personality I'd written him? If he was a fun, outgoing guy I was going to feel really bad.

Well, as it turned out - wow. Apparently I didn't do his ornery enough justice. If I were to write a story set in 14th century Europe I would model my plague doctor after him. You know people who walk into a room and the whole mood suddenly plummets?

"I don't like this," He honored me with a jerk of the chin and a half of a sideways glance.

Sweet.

I retrieved my stuff - no way was I leaving anything behind - and reached for the gold watch.

Right? Yes. I could do this.

"I'm ready," I said aloud, just to make sure I knew I was.

And I touched it. Just slightly, with the tip of my finger.

And lost all my breath. A crack of pain and static noise split through my head, and an overwhelming knot of nausea tightened in my stomach before everything - and everyone - pitched away.

* * *

I gasped. The air was cold.

"Oh, you're awake!"

Guess I was. I glanced to the side, "Oh," My throat was dry, "I guess it didn't work out."

LeBeau shook his head, "_Non_, sorry. How are you feeling?"

"Pretty cruddy," I had a few other words in mind. I carefully pushed myself up, wincing at the headache and the sore muscles and joints. I swear I heard my back creak.

I looked around. Apparently the watch had had the same effect on me as it had on Tuttle. IV, flimsy hospital gown, the works. Yippee skippee. I can't stand hospitals. They just creep me out. My mom keeps suggesting that I be a nurse and I just - blugh.

"How long ago was that?" I poked at where the needle went into my skin.

"Don't touch that. Four days, about." He held out a cup and I quickly took it. It was just water, and probably pretty gross water at that, but it was delicious. Like lemonade.

"M-hmm," I hadn't showered in four days. I hadn't washed my face or brushed my teeth for four days. Despite the fact that my acne was literally the least of my problems - ugh.

I shook my head. I didn't want to ask about their shower accommodations, because I didn't think I'd like the answer, "So, what happened while I was out?" While I was out. Blegh.

I've been making a lot of disgusted noises lately, haven't I?

"A couple things," LeBeau said, and then raised an eyebrow, "A couple of people, really."

Uh-oh, "Go on?"

"More authors," LeBeau shook his head, "Looks like we're in for the whole mess all over again."

I groaned. Which was probably kind of mean, not that I wouldn't like to meet these people, but I just really, really wanted to go home, "Please tell me you're joking?"

"Sorry, _Mademoiselle_. But on the bright side, you get to spend time with us," He shrugged and smiled awkwardly.

"There's lots of bright sides but there's more bright sides about going home," I said.

"Well, that's not happening right now, so you have to stay optimistic. Hungry?"

I shrugged.

"Come on, you haven't eaten since you got here."

"No," I shook my head, "I don't think I could. What are the chances of me getting my clothes back?"

LeBeau sighed, "You still look horrible. But look, you wait here, I will go ask Wilson, but if you go anywhere I will tie you to this bed. I swear, you all are always wandering off."

I did seem to recall that being a recurring theme in the previous disaster.

And I wasn't about to break tradition. As soon as LeBeau left, I carefully stood up, steadying myself on the rickety little end table. I didn't go much farther than that, partially because I didn't think my legs would hold me and partially because I doubted LeBeau's threat.

When LeBeau did return with Wilson in tow, he flung his hands up, "What did I tell you?" He sighed, "I swear they do it just for spite!"

Wilson gave me The Look, "Was it?"

"Kind of," I admitted.

He sighed and rolled his eyes, "Well, how you feeling?"

"She won't eat anything," LeBeau grumbled.

"I'm not hungry!" I protested, "I feel fine."

"You said you felt 'pretty crummy'."

"Fine-ish," I amended.

Wilson raised an eyebrow, "I see you two have really hit it off."

"You made a joke," LeBeau muttered, "I'm impressed."

Wilson ignored him, stepping over to me, "Sit down and hold still."

Real amicable fellow there. He silently touched two fingers to my throat, frowning at his watch, and then looked at me. He didn't say anything for a long moment and I daresay it was just a bit awkward.

"Well, look, miss," He said finally, "You look like you could use another solid night's sleep, to put it nicely. But if you're responsible enough to tell someone if you feel worse, which, somehow, I doubt, then you can go."

"I can be responsible," I said confidently, "I _am_ responsible. Yes. Absolutely."

He looked skeptical, but I was beginning to get the feeling that this was a common occurrence, "Alright," He sighed and shook his head, "Now that I've cleared you, you're going to take two steps and collapse."

"Promise not to," I stood up and swayed a bit.

He grabbed my arm and gave me The Look again.

"I'm fine," I said.

"Ish," He deadpanned.

"Fine-ish," I extracted my arm from his grip and looked between the two of them, "Could I _please _get my clothes back now?"

Wilson sighed and stood up, "She's all yours, LeBeau."

"You're not going to tell her to eat anything? I don't think she'll listen to me."

"She'll get hungry, relax. Drink a lot of water, though, miss. Bye." He left.

LeBeau sighed, and pointed to another dilapidated table at the foot of the bed, "Your clothes are right there. As soon as you're changed I'll take you to the others."

Oh, the others, yes.

"Thanks," I said, "I'll be quick."

My bag was sitting next to my clothes, a jean backpack with one broken strap (funny story about that). After I got dressed I pawed through it, trying to remember what I had and hadn't lost when Nazi Doctor Who had crashed into me. I'd gotten my Standard of Perfection back (about chickens, by the way, it sounds quite Nazi-ish out of context), and my wallet, and some notebooks… My pencil bag was missing several pens and pencils, and I had a fairly good idea of who had taken them, but I figured if they'd kept me alive the past four days they had a right to it. Oh, I was missing a notebook.

I slung my bag over my shoulder and stepped out of the infirmary, "Hey, do you - hey!" I made a grab for the notebook in LeBeau's hands and he yanked it away.

"Nope. I'm reading it," He said pompously.

"Stop that, it's only my first draft and I'm not finished either," Despite his height (or lack thereof) he played a neat game of keep-away.

"I want to see what kind of things people write about me," He said, "But I haven't gotten to me yet. Apparently this is what you would call an original character story?"

I lunged again and he made a neat little leap over Kinch's chair, "That's not what you would call it, and that's _my_ story. Not fanfiction." Then I paused, "Do you think it's okay so far?"

He shrugged, "It needs some work."

"Well, yeah. But…?"

"It's not bad. Come on, I'll take you to the others," He relinquished my notebook and waved his hand for me to follow.

As much of a disappointing comment it should have been, I couldn't help but puff up just a little bit. Louis LeBeau thought my story was "not bad". Well! Random House, here I come.

If I ever got back to 2019, that is.


	10. The Real Question (LE Wigman)

**The Real Question**

**Written by L.E. Wigman**

"Do you have a name?"

I was still staring at the bunk, which had closed moments ago. I closed my mouth with an audible snap and looked at him until he repeated the question.

"Oh, yeah," I managed to say.

"May I have it?"

"Leah." I murmured, turning my attention to surveying my surroundings. It was so much bigger than the set. I did a quick mental note. We must only be seeing half of the barracks, I assumed. The bunks were plain and rough. Splinters must be a common complaint.

The table in the center of the room was long enough to seat fifteen or more people comfortably and interestingly, the tabletop was sanded smooth with some kind of shiny lacquer to seal it.

My focus then settled on the men, many of whom had the starting scruff of beards - which I don't recall the prisoners having on the show. Their uniforms were impeccably clean, but growing thin in some places and visibly patched in others. They were pretty thin, too ; although whether this was a statement on the food at this joint or an indication of the current obesity crisis, I was unsure. The bunk rose again and I turned back in child-like glee.

Olsen popped his head up, saying, "Colonel says to bring him down."

"Her," Baker quietly corrected. "She's just got really short hair."

My hand went up to my hair, petting it protectively. I've a new pixie cut - which I quite like - but with it freshly washed and me without any makeup on... well, let's just say I can understand the faux pas, even if it did deal a hefty blow to my feminine ego.

I swung my leg over the side of the bed frame, slippered feet hitting the first rung. Man, I wish I'd worn sneakers or even sandals. No, scratch that - slippers are twenty times more comfortable than my sandals. I climbed down, keenly aware of Olsen's closeness as he guided me down, which honestly wasn't that far. The ceiling was lower than I'd thought. I mean, in the show it was almost non-existent.

"This way," He directed, starting to reach for my elbow.

I pulled out of reach - amazingly, it still hurt from Schultz's hard grasp. "I can walk," I said.

We started forward toward the group huddled around a small cot on which an older woman - sporting a T-shirt that said something about Ohio - was laying, her eyes closed as if sleeping. Another woman was standing on the right side of a kneeling sergeant. He seemed to be examining the woman on the cot.

"She seems to be okay," he said, after a moment. "Just let her rest until she comes to."

Wilson - I assumed - stood and reached for his medic's kit. "Well, I'll be going back to the infirmary then... unless you'd like to inflict this poor woman like you did Tuttle and Caroline?"

Hogan shook his head dismissively and Wilson turned, instantly spotting me. "Are you hurt or feeling faint?" he asked brusquely.

I shook my head. This was a lie. My arm throbbed and my stomach was twisting into knots, but honestly, what could he do about it? He grunted and walked on through a different tunnel opening. The others now aware of my presence began to look me up and down.

"Here's your younger one, Newkirk," Carter said, a smart-alecky grin on his face.

Kinch approached me with a thoughtful expression, observing the newest situation. "These two came in quick succession. Pen name?" he asked, his hands preoccupied with a clipboard and pen.

"L.E. Wigman," I said automatically. "W-I-G-M-A-N. But you can call me Leah... or Wigman... or whatever."

He seemed surprised. "You're not upset or confused that you were thrown back in time seventy years?"

"Of course, I am," I said in my edged, don't-be-stupid voice reserved only for when I'm particularly annoyed. "Actually, I'm more concerned with whether or not I'm having a psychotic break. They can cause delusions and hallucinations, you know."

"You aren't," Hogan said. His voice, posture, and expression sent one message loud and clear. He was not thrilled to have me here, nor was he very impressed with my attitude. (I could tell the last part because my dad delivers that same kind of non-verbal cue ... often.)

"Why don't you tell us about the moments leading up to your arrival."

It was a command and I bit my lip as the annoyance and bluster vanished. (You see, I'm a bit of a paper tiger.) "I don't know. Honestly. One minute I'm typing out my annoyance with people who drop Oxford commas and the next I'm falling into 1940."

"1943." Carter helpfully corrected.

I opened my mouth to make an ugly retort about landing in an uninteresting period, but stopped short, thinking about the timeline... what could I say that wouldn't interfere? I bit my lip as a horrendous thought struck me. If I didn't get out of here, I was going to be butterfly-effecting all over the place.

"You need to get us out of here," I said, quickly swallowing another lump this time caused by my rolling stomach. "I haven't finished the story, but they all get back. I mean, they had to have gotten back."

The group exchanged some looks. I felt like I was on the outside of some ridiculous, inside joke.

"You can get me back, right?"

The younger woman stepped forward and smiled slightly. "Hi, I'm Tuttle," she said. My mind briefly registered a hairdryer-wielding snowman and peanuts as she continued gently. "We did get back before, but I'm afraid that way isn't working this time."

"We're stuck with you for the time being," Hogan concluded. "We'll do our best to keep you out of harm's way until we figure this out, but none of you should be wandering the tunnels..."

He was still talking, giving more orders and instructions, but my mind was spinning with the enormity of what was happening. This wasn't my imagination. This wasn't a sitcom that ended predictably with the bad guys losing. This was an honest to goodness POW camp. This was a real spy ring. The consequences if everything went wrong could- no, _would-_ be fatal.

I wonder what happens to 2019 you, if you're executed in 1943...

"I changed my mind," I said in a hoarse whisper. "I don't feel so good."

My knees buckled and this strange, unfamiliar world went dark.

* * *

I fought to open my eyes, shifting in bed. My pillow was unusually hard. My left hip throbbed. Must've fallen asleep on the floor. I inhaled sleepily, the smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted into my nose. I grinned and rolled onto my stomach, or tried to anyways. I hit the earth floor with a thud and found myself quite awake.

"Are you okay?"

I heard the voice and looked up to see Carter, standing in front of his laboratory table. His face was nothing but concern. "Yeah," I said, the memories slowly dropping into place, though still a bit jumbled. "What happened?"

His face broke into a grin. "You were sent back in time, 1943. Remember?"

"You mean I didn't fall asleep reading fanfics again?"

"Nope." He said shortly, firm set lips replacing the smile.

I slowly pulled myself up. My head joined my hip in throbbing and my neck took some manoeuvring before it popped, settling the crick. My stomach was rumbling and the coffee smelled delicious. "Is that fresh?" I asked gesturing to the pot sitting on the hot plate.

"Sure is." He picked it up with a cloth. "Want some?"

"Please."

I walked through the little lab, fascinated by the sheer volume of items he had. I'd imagined a make-shift and, frankly, pretty lacking version of a lab, but this was decently stocked... and the equipment! How on earth did they manage to get all of this in the middle of Nazi Germany?

"Here," Carter said, pushing a tin mug into my hands. It was steaming hot, but no cream.

"Milk?" I asked, vainly hoping that if they could find any of these fancy and likely restricted chemicals, they would have a little cow juice on hand.

He shook his head apologetically. "All we have is powdered and LeBeau keeps a pretty tight leash on that stuff."

"Is he as good a chef as in the show?" My stomach was gnawing on my back bone at the thought of a fine French dinner.

Carter shrugged. "I don't know, but he sure does work magic with what he has. He's up top now fixing some soup for you three new arrivals. This time travel seems to take it out of you girls."

"New arrivals?" I slurped the coffee, scrunching my nose at the bitterness, but grateful for the caffeine.

"How long was I asleep?"

"Only a few hours. You, Abracadebra, and Snooky-9093 all came today." he said softly, keeping a polite, respectful distance between us. He held his hand out toward the doorway (which didn't have colour coded blanket-curtains as I wrote in many a story). "Colonel said to bring you up as soon as you got up."

I smiled brightly as I stepped through into the dark tunnel, still sipping at my coffee. "Well, there's one thing I can thank Mr. Straight Teeth for," I said absently, waiting for him to take the lead. "We're finally having a little get together."

"Mr. Straight Teeth?"

"The guy who gave me the watch."

"Would you recognize him if you saw him again?"

I almost laughed. I'm a lover of the mystery/crime novels and his question sounded like it had been pulled straight from the pages, but the seriousness in his demeanor restrained me and I nodded. "I suppose I could. Why?"

He'd been guiding me through the dark at a slow enough pace that I didn't struggle too much, but I was relieved to reach the radio room. "The other ladies didn't get to good of a look or didn't pay much attention to him."

"Surely, you don't think one man was behind all of this... I mean we're spread out all over, how could he find out where we live?"

"That's not the worrying question."

"Oh?" I said, still pretty worried about that question.

"The question is, why does he want you all here?"

A chill rippled down my spine as I watched him climb the ladder. Oh, boy... I hadn't thought about that. I left the cup on the radio table and slowly followed him up the ladder to meet the others.


	11. Hogan

**Hogan**

Hogan leaned against the door to his office, watching the activity in the common room. It took everything in him not to go hide in his office and hope this whole turn of events would blow over on its own.

It was happening again.

Three months or so ago, a woman had mysteriously popped into camp. And although her story was ludicrous, insane, and impossible, it turned out that she was from the future. The year 2008. A strange watch stored at the National Archives had sent her back in time. Stranger still, she knew all about Hogan and his operation. Apparently it had all been turned into some sort of television serial- similar to a series of small movies that people watched weekly. Hogan remembered seeing a television set at the world fair and had been fascinated by it. In the future, they had become common place. Everyone owned one. Sometimes two or more. He didn't know why anyone would need more than one, but the future seemed full of excesses.

Anyway, not only had his operation at Stalag 13 been turned into one of these serials, but people devoted their time to write even more stories about it. Fanfiction, they called it. Hogan didn't pretend to understand it- it all seemed silly to him.

Other women had eventually joined her, all of them authors. Oh, and one very disturbed young man had also shown up. Things had gotten a little hairy, but somehow they had managed to muddle through and get all of them home. In fact, along the way, some of the women turned out to be incredibly capable and resourceful, keeping their cool under intense pressure and changing circumstances. And, to put the cherry on top, Hogan had been able to get Hochstetter out of his hair by using him as a guinea pig to test the time travel device, sending him into the future along with General Biedenbender.

All in all a happy ending.

Or it should've been. The last author, GSJessica was just about to go home when Goldman had informed him of trouble. Looking back, he should have stopped her from going. She had been a pushy dame, sure, but immensely capable and he could've used her when that trouble turned out to be yet another author arriving from the future.

Well, not another author. In fact, it was one that he had sent home not ten minutes before. But it had been far longer than ten minutes for her. She had been back in the future for over ten years before coming back. The whole concept of time travel boggled his mind and he had a hard time wrapping his head around the immense amount of time that had happened in the span of only a few minutes.

At first Hogan had been annoyed. Hadn't she learned her lesson? Why did she come back? But he quickly learned it hadn't been her own doing. Someone had targeted her. The other authors who had shown up in the meantime had similar stories- a strange man had used the time travel device to send them back as well.

But why? For what purpose? What was the end game? Who would want to send a bunch of women, most of whom had never been to Stalag 13 before, to the past? To him?

Hogan didn't like unanswered questions. Especially when they could prove incredibly dangerous to his men and organization.

And sending them back wouldn't be easy. For the first batch, they had obtained the time travel device- which they referred to simply as "the watch" because of its resemblance to the time piece- and had used that to send them home. But for some reason, it had become like poison. Instead of being sent home to the future after touching it, the first two authors to try ended up in comas. That was unexpected. And frightening. He didn't like anyone dying on his watch, and they had come very close. So when the next three showed up, he didn't bother to get them to try.

Beside, even if had been tempted to, Wilson would have stopped him. And even though Hogan was the boss and he knew Wilson would follow his orders, he still never liked to be in the medic's bad books.

So here he was, with five women from the future on his hands, with no clue as to why they were sent to Stalag 13, and no way to send them home. Arguably a less than ideal situation.

At the moment, three of the authors were gathered around the table in the common room, chatting with each other and studiously avoiding making eye contact with him. LeBeau was at the stove, making them some soup. Baker stood at the door, peeking out into the compound to make sure no one was coming while simultaneously keeping a curious eye on the women. The other members of the team were down in the tunnel somewhere, either making themselves scarce, or keeping watch over Leah and Caroline.

"Is that eel soup?" Tuttle asked LeBeau. "Last time he fed me eel soup," she announced to the other authors, scrunching her nose.

"I did not!" LeBeau said hotly. "And besides, my eel soup is delicious! You would be lucky to have it!"

"Where do you get eels in the middle of World War Two Germany?" Abracadebra asked.

"Better yet, _why_ would you get eels in the middle of World War Two Germany?" Sue countered with a grin.

LeBeau turned a little red and the women shared a smile.

Hogan grunted. This wasn't exactly the time for jokes. They had a big problem on their hands. _He_ had a big problem on his hands, and as usual, it would be up to him to solve it.

Five new authors. Five new women he needed to contain somehow. Well, Hogan supposed he couldn't complain too much about that. If all the men in the future were like that one boy, he definitely didn't want any more showing up.

He wasn't quite sure what to make of the new batch. Three had only just shown up within the last few hours, and the second one to show up was still in bed, resting after her disastrous encounter with the now poisonous watch.

The only known quantity was Tuttle- the author who had arrived first and had also been part of the original group. Hogan wished it had been GSJessica, or Linda, or Jake, or any of the others. No, not _any_ of the others, but Tuttle would have been down near the bottom of his list.

Maybe, just maybe it wouldn't be that bad. Age seemed to have mellowed her out a bit. She had been here over a week already and hadn't caused too much trouble. Actually, she had been incredibly obedient. It helped, of course, that she had been unconscious for part of the time. Hogan soon realized he had to update his perception of her- she was no longer the flirty fireball who couldn't stop cracking jokes. She _might_ even prove useful. Well, if it wasn't for one minor thing...

Hogan groaned. Having a bunch of women in camp was bad enough, but a pregnant woman?

He didn't want to think about it, even though it was something that he couldn't afford to ignore indefinitely.

He didn't know a lot about the other two at the table, Abracadebra and Snooky. They were older, and were already as thick as thieves. Apparently they were friends even though they had never met- like pen pals or something. Perhaps they would work well together, as GSJessica and Linda had.

His initial assessment of Abracadebra was that she was intelligent and tough. She mentioned she had been a newspaper reporter, and Hogan immediately took to thinking of her as a Lois Lane type. Although he hoped she would need less saving than her comic book counterpart. The fact that she had fainted not long after arriving hadn't instilled too much confidence in him until two more authors had arrived and had also fainted soon after. Apparently the watch in the future was also poisonous. Thankfully she had only been out for an hour or so.

Snooky, or Sue, was incredibly short. Comically so. But Hogan had better sense than to mention it. Short people tended to be a little ornery, if LeBeau was anything to go by. After the initial shock had passed (along with more fainting), she seemed to adjust to the idea of being here pretty well. She even referenced the events that had taken place with the original group, calling it The Mary Sue Experiments. Hogan didn't claim to understand the title, but it was obvious that when all the authors had returned home, they had written about their adventure and shared it with their friends.

The thought made Hogan grimace. Not only was it a major security breach, but he had a feeling that he didn't come off particularly well in their story, especially if that pushy dame, with her infatuation of Klink, had any control over the narrative. He wasn't sure why he cared what a bunch of silly women wrote about him 60 or 70 years in the future, but he did.

"At least we get some fine French cooking," Abracadebra said, turning Hogan's attention back to their conversation.

"Well, it's not poutine," Tuttle said, "but I guess it'll do."

"What is poutine?" LeBeau asked. It sounded French to Hogan.

"A dish made with fries, cheese curds, and gravy. You know, _real _French food," Tuttle replied with a Cheshire cat grin. She was baiting him. Maybe she hadn't changed so much after all.

"Barbarians!" LeBeau huffed indignantly. He slammed the pot of soup onto the table, letting loose a string of angry French. "I do not have to take such insults!" he continued before marching over to Kinch's bunk and smacking open the tunnel.

"LeBeau," Hogan called. LeBeau paused momentarily, glaring daggers at him, tempting him to order him to stay and be insulted. "Go check on Caroline. If she's awake bring her up. And tell Carter to stick close to Leah and bring her up when she's ready too."

"Oui," LeBeau grunted before disappearing down the ladder. The tunnel shut a moment later.

"This actually smells good," Sue said as she ladled some soup into their bowls. Then she turned a bit shyly to Hogan. "Would you like some?"

"Eel soup? Not on your life."

The women snickered, but quickly became content to ignore him again while they ate their soup. None of them seemed eager to engage with him- perhaps they were afraid to- and he wished they held the same sentiment towards his men. It would make their stay here a whole lot easier. But he suspected there would be a few ruffled feathers- these women couldn't help themselves. They referred to him and his men as "the heroes", and he supposed it was hard to keep someone away from their heroes.

He didn't have to wait long for LeBeau to return, Caroline in tow. Hogan suppressed a groan. This author was nothing more than a _child_. Certainly the youngest of either group to pop into camp. What on earth was he supposed to do with her? He hoped, at least, she had more sense than the other young woman who had recently left.

He had to hand it to her, she was very brave. He supposed he hadn't left her much choice- he had strongly suggested she touch that watch- but that fact that she did it with only mild hesitation, knowing the possible consequences, spoke well of her. Other than that, she seemed like a shy little thing, so perhaps she wouldn't cause too much trouble. Then again, she had been unconscious pretty much the whole time she had been here, so he could be mistaken on that.

She also looked remarkably well considering her brush with death. He chalked that up to her youth- kids tended to bounce back from those things easily enough. Probably not feeling one hundred percent, but the fact she was dressed and had made it up the ladder from the tunnel was a good sign.

She loitered awkwardly near the tunnel entrance until LeBeau pushed her onto the bench, next to Tuttle. Without a word he poured her a bowl of soup and shoved it in front of her. "I do not care what you said. Eat," he ordered.

She opened her mouth to protest, but Tuttle quickly reached over and touched her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. Apparently it was one thing for _her_ to rile up his men, it was another for someone else to rock the boat. Perhaps Tuttle thought her previous relationship with them gave her some license to tease or talk back, but she didn't want the others to dive head first into trouble. Maybe she _would_ be useful after all.

Hogan could practically see Caroline indignantly bite her tongue before blowing on her soup and making a show of eating a spoonful. LeBeau ignored the impertinence and nodded with satisfaction. Apparently whatever protests Caroline had made before were forgotten because after the first bite she dug in quite happily.

The three other women paused to greet Caroline and ask how she was feeling and Hogan was relieved to hear her say "fine-ish". Fine-ish was better than dead-ish in his books.

Carter and Leah came up not long after that. Leah seated herself at the table and helped herself to some soup. Olsen had mistaken her for a boy and Hogan couldn't say he blamed him too much considering how short her hair was and the clothes she was wearing. It seemed to be the fashion in the future- for women to look like men. But after some thought, Hogan didn't find the fashion too disturbing. He remembered in the twenties when women chopped off all their hair and wore clothes specifically designed to give them boyish figures. He supposed fashion always recycled itself, just with a few new twists. Although he couldn't say he approved of the women's tendency to wear blue jeans. No one wore those unless they worked on a farm.

Still, Leah's appearance could be an advantage. Her short hair and her height meant he could probably pass her off as a fresh-faced private if the need arose. It had worked well enough for Iron America, or rather, Corporal Whitis.

Soon Olsen, Kinch, and Newkirk came up from the tunnels. Perfect timing. The authors were all eating. That would mean less back talk.

"All right, here's the situation," Hogan began. "You probably already know, but for some reason the watch is not working, so we can't send you home." There was a murmur of disappointment. "The question is _why_ doesn't it work?"

"Colonel, they all said that before they touched the watch in 2019, the felt some sort of pricking sensation," Kinch reported, reading off his clipboard. "Maybe it has something to do with that."

"Like a time travel vaccine?" Abracadebra asked.

"What else could it be? The watch worked just fine before you all showed up," Carter said.

"That sounds pretty hokey to me," Tuttle said.

"Maybe, but it means whoever sent you back here wants to keep you here," Hogan said seriously.

"But _why_?" Sue asked. "Why us? Why... any of this?"

"I'm open to suggestions," Hogan said because honestly, he had no idea. The authors looked at each other, but all they could come up with were shrugs.

"Maybe someone will roll into camp with all the answers," Newkirk said. He looked to the door, causing everyone else to. From his post Baker shook his head. "Worked the last time."

"So an unknown assailant sent all of you back for an unknown reason and wants to keep you here," Hogan recapped. Definitely not good.

"All right, now what?" Caroline asked. "We can't stay here, can we?"

Hogan stuck out his lip and folded his arms over his chest, grabbing his elbows. He heard someone squeal with excitement, but didn't know who.

"Colonel, maybe we should try the watch again," Kinch suggested.

"No," Carter said. "It's too dangerous."

"Oui," LeBeau agreed emphatically.

"Not this conversation again," Newkirk drawled.

"No, not right now," Kinch continued. "But if they were injected with something that keeps them from traveling, it means there's nothing wrong with the watch. Maybe we just need to let whatever it is to work its way out of their systems."

"How long do you think that will take?" Tuttle asked anxiously.

Hogan looked towards Carter for a suggestion, but he just looked back wide-eyed. That was either too far out of his wheelhouse or he didn't want to speculate in case he was wrong and someone ended up hurt again. Maybe Wilson would have an idea, but Hogan suspected the medic would nix the whole plan altogether.

"How about we try again in two weeks," Kinch suggested.

"That sounds reasonable," Hogan agreed. He turned to the authors. "Two weeks?"

"I'm willing to try it," Leah said.

"Good. That means you'll be stuck here in the tunnels for two weeks. Do you think you can all behave yourselves?"

"Yes Father," Tuttle chirped, but the cheerful tone was betrayed by the worried look on her face. Hogan remembered her showing him a picture of her family that she had on her phone (a phone with a camera? It still amazed him). She was probably anxious to get back to them. And she probably wasn't the only one. Hogan reminded himself that all these women had families and lives they wanted to get back to. As hard as it was for him and his men to be separated from their families by distance and war, it was probably just as hard or harder to be separated by 70 years!

Despite her answer, Hogan didn't believe her. Not one bit.

"If you don't want to be spending those two weeks in the cooler, we're going to lay down some ground rules. Absolutely no coming up into the barracks unless you're specifically asked to and are escorted. Carter's lab is off limits."

"And my sewing room!" Newkirk added.

"And no one touches my radio," Kinch warned.

"No going near the printing press or the machine shop either," Hogan said.

"And if I catch any of you in my pantry, I will chop off your hands!" LeBeau growled dangerously. To emphasize his point, he grabbed a butcher's knife from seemingly nowhere and pointed it at them. That caused a few wide eyes.

"Basically stay in your quarters, or the library." Here the women mouthed the word 'library' to each other. "There's a record player in there and a decent selection of music as well as some yarn, knitting needles and crochet hooks. If you can't occupy yourselves with all that, then too bad. Showers are limited to twice a week, and believe me that's me being generous."

Here, Leah raised her hand, an annoyed look on her face. "Question," she said with a sweetness drenched in sarcasm. "Do we have to ask your permission to use the bathroom too?" She batted her eyes, feigning doe-eyed innocence.

"Funny. That's funny," Hogan deadpanned.

"Hilarious," LeBeau agreed flatly.

"A regular Bob Hope," Kinch finished.

"No, you don't," Hogan said, answering the rhetorical dig. "Look, none of us are happy about this situation, but let's try and make the best of it, shall we?"

"Question." This time it was Caroline. Hogan looked at her with a raised eyebrow, daring her to make a snide remark. "What happens if the watch doesn't work in two weeks?"

"Then like you said, you can't stay here. We'll arrange passage to London."

"We can't give any information to intelligence," Sue said quickly. "We can't risk tampering with the timeline. The future isn't perfect, but there's a chance we could make it a whole lot worse."

Hogan balked a little at that. These women had information that could potentially end the war within a few months. They could save a lot of lives. Thousands of lives. Maybe millions! It seemed very selfish to keep that information to themselves.

But Hogan grudgingly had to concede the point. As far as he knew, the world was still intact in 2019, and apparently life was so cushy that these women could frivolously spend their time writing stories about Stalag 13 for nothing but their own satisfaction. Who knew how the future would change even by their very presence here, much less if they spilled all they knew about the next 70 years.

"We'll have to coordinate with intelligence to get you all set up with identities, lodgings, and everything, but I am sure we can keep them off your backs otherwise." At least, he would try his best.

"Should we get started on the paperwork now, just in case they have to go?" Kinch asked.

Hogan nodded. "And Newkirk, you're going to have to make an exception to your rule. They'll need to be fitted with civilian clothes."

"Fine if I'm in there with them," Newkirk said.

"Good. Now finish your soup and then back into the tunnels with you," Hogan ordered. The women fired off little salutes. They intentionally dawdled with their soup, trying his patience, but eventually they finished and headed back downstairs.

"You're crackers if you think they're going to keep out of trouble," Newkirk said when they were all gone.

"Patience, men. We'll get through this."

"How many more do you think will show up?" Carter asked.

"There's no way to know," Kinch said. "Abracadebra said there were quite a few active authors. Maybe they'll all come, maybe they won't. It would help to know who is behind this and what their game is."

"Well, we don't know that so we'll just have to play it by ear," Hogan said. Then he sighed. "As long as we don't get any more crazy ones like Buy-a-cougar, we'll be fine. These ones seem pretty sensible."

"Sensible," Newkirk snorted doubtfully.

"We got through this once, we can get through it again. We just have to keep them out of trouble."

"And what if trouble finds them?" Kinch asked.

Hogan didn't have an answer for that, but he wasn't sure what kind of trouble could possibly be worse than their current situation.


	12. The Tourist Trap (konarciq)

**The Tourist Trap**

**Written by konarciq**

"But it didn't really happen here. And they didn't film it here either."

The lady at the tourist information was already the third to tell me that. Talk about sabotaging your own touristic attraction... She just told me that they'd had visitors from all over the world coming to see the town of Hogan's Heroes, including an Australian couple on holiday in Prague, who especially crossed over into Germany _just_ to visit the Hogan's Heroes' hometown! And all everyone here is telling them is that it didn't really happen here!

Either way, I didn't mind. Of course I knew it didn't happen here. As far as we know, it didn't happen at all. It was just a funny idea Mr. Ruddy and Mr. Fein and Mr. Feldman came up with when the idea of setting a comedy in a regular prison seemed a bit difficult to sell to the audience. But that didn't mean I couldn't _pretend_ that this was where it all happened.

By which time I ought to make a confession. I'm strictly in the Düsseldorf camp when it comes to the location of Hamelburg (with one M) and the Stalag 13 from the show. But somehow, in my mind the 'real' Hammelburg with two Ms is connected to Hogan's Heroes as well. I don't know – maybe because quite a lot of my fellow HH fic authors consider it the true home of Hogan's Heroes. So that's why I was here, taking a look around so I could report back to all my friends at the forum what the real Hammelburg was like.

I had already been wandering around the old town all day, taking pictures of every little nook and cranny that looked interesting. I had quickly learned that the old town, plus the main roads in and out of town, plus the street to the railway station was all there was to the Hammelburg of the 40s. So that's what I was focusing on, and I loved it. It really is a quaint little town. You'd imagine them filming _A Christmas Carol_ here, with all those cobble stones and crooked little alleys. And the slanting plaza that served as the natural centre of the town was just plain lovely. Nothing really out of the ordinary, but just lovely, in a very homely way. _Gemütlich_, as they call it here.

But I had also set my cap to go and take a look at the camp. Which I had quickly learned was situated on top of the hill range south of town. Too far to walk obviously. At least for my tastes, although I had no problem picturing Hogan and Co regularly taking that hike on foot. So was there perhaps a bus going that way that I could take? That's why I was at the tourist information.

"Yes, there is a schoolbus passing there. It leaves from the school, here..." She pointed it out on the map. "... at a quarter past two. And there's another bus coming back that way at a quarter past three."

"And there is indeed a bus stop at Lager Hammelburg? Or do I have to ask the bus driver especially to stop there?" I grinned, thinking of the infamous Fahrgastausstiegswünschtaste – a word that was almost as crazy as the Eierschalensollbruchstellenverursacher.

"No, there's two bus stops, so you should be okay."

So that very afternoon, I found my way to the local high school and bought a ticket to Lager Hammelburg on a bus filled with teenagers who merely needed to show their complementary bus card. The good thing was though, that I got to ride up front, so I had a good view of everything, including any bus stops. I had figured I'd get off at the second one, and then walk back to the first one, so I would already know where to look for it.

So we crossed the Saale – the fairly narrow river/brook that leisurely meanders through the valley of Hammelburg – and took a left turn for the main road leading up the hills. I got a much closer look at the castle Schloss Saaleck, and we wound our way through the village of Pfaffenhausen halfway up the hill before returning to the main road and up to the top, where Lager Hammelburg was located. And there was bus stop number one – check, so the next stop was mine. So I pressed the Fahrgastausstiegswünschtaste, and was dropped off at the far end of what on the map looked like an entire separate village: Lager Hammelburg.

The road was lined with fairly large houses on one side, and a high fence with buildings barely visible through the dense greens on the other. Clearly, there wasn't going to be *very* much exploring to do, but hey, it was just the idea of being here. So like in the old town, I took out my camera and started taking pictures of pretty much anything that you could take a picture of, and began my trek back to the other bus stop. It wasn't far – maybe 500 meters – so I had lots of time to take pictures of everything.

Or so I thought...

"Excuse me!"

I looked around. Whoever had called had done so loudly enough that it made sense he was addressing me, for no other reason than that there didn't seem to be anyone else around (save for all the cars passing).

"Yes, you!" In a window on the upper floor of one of the houses on my right was a soldier. Or maybe an officer; truth be told I wouldn't be able to tell the difference.

"Yes?" I called back.

"You're not allowed to take pictures here!"

I raised my eyebrows. "Really?"

"Yes. So you better put that camera away."

I shrugged, and did as I was told. I figured that once I'd be out of his sight, I could just get out that camera again. After all, this was a public street – why wouldn't I be allowed to take pictures?

But for a while I just sauntered on, taking in everything. They couldn't stop me from looking now, could they. Not that there was much to see, but you know, it was just the idea of being there that counted.

A little further down the street was a heavy gate in the fence, with a soldier standing guard. He was looking at me. No wonder – I suppose I was a novelty, since there was little else to see but passing cars. But to my surprise, he addressed me.

"Were you the one who was taking pictures just now?"

"Yes." Well, that's me: unless I know in advance that I might need to lie, I'm honest almost to a fault.

"Why were you taking pictures?"

"Well, I'm part of an international group of fans of the TV show _Ein Käfig voller Helden_, and it's always said that their camp was near a small town called Hammelburg. And considering that there is indeed a military camp near Hammelburg, some of us like to pretend it actually happened here. So I'm taking pictures here and around town to show them what it's like here. After all, I'm the only one who lives anywhere near the place."

It was glaringly obvious that he was not amused. "Can I see what pictures you took?"

I raised my eyebrows. "Why?"

"You're not allowed to take pictures around here."

"Yes, that's what your colleague said, too. So I put my camera in my bag and didn't take any more."

"And I want to see what pictures you took _before_ you put away your camera."

For a moment, I bravely (or foolishly) contemplated refusing. I didn't see what business it was of his. But then I came to my senses. After all, this was the military, and the military is – at least in my book – pretty much synonymous with narrow-mindedness, paranoia, and blindly following orders. (With the exception of Hogan and Henry Blake of course.) And with a still valid visum for Russia in my passport, it probably would _not_ be a good idea to be accused of being a spy.

So I opened up my small backpack to dig out my camera again. There was an odd stinging sensation in my arm as I rummaged through the contents, but I didn't really pay attention to it. I just got the camera and took it out of its protective bag.

"Turn it on for me," he told me.

So I did. I went to the function to go through the pictures I'd taken so far, and held it out for him to see.

Instead, he took it from me, and held out his other hand to me. "Here, hold this for a moment."

Out of sheer reflex, I accepted whatever small thing he wanted me to hold for him – and the next thing I knew, I nearly toppled over for dizziness and only just managed to keep myself upright. What the heck was that?!

Wait a sec. Where was that soldier? And where were all the buildings? And the fence? And the street?

I looked around. I was standing by a sandy track. Not even cars in sight. Just trees – mixed woods as far as the eye could see. And the bright blue sky of the day had suddenly turned overcast.

Huh?

I looked down. I still had my open backpack in my hands. But that stupid soldier had my camera. I sighed. Oh well. No big deal. It was pretty old anyway, and it's not like I use it a lot. A shame though that I've lost all my pictures of Hammelburg and of my first stay in the Alps at Garmisch-Partenkirchen earlier this week. But hey, I can always come back some other time and take new ones.

Suddenly, a grin began to spread over my face. Whatever had happened, it was glaringly obvious that I had been moved. This was not the main road through Lager Hammelburg where I had been a moment ago. So where was I? Or when was I? It could be anywhere. And for an escapist like me, who devours tales about alternate worlds and multiple universes and time travel and the likes, the idea of suddenly finding myself in a scenario of the kind was nothing short of exhilarating!

Imagine I had suddenly ended up somewhere in the extensive grounds of the Januarian Embassy! Believe me, I'd make a beeline for the library to find Mr. Simak and get an application form for a permanent residence permit! From that place, I'd never want to leave again!

Or maybe this was somewhere in the magical land of Haar, where the Pied Piper took the kids of Hamelin? Maybe I should go looking for Security Officer Ogterop Deux, or Prince Tor and Princess Madelein. I would love to meet them! _Can You Give Me Directions to Sombrië, Sir?_ LOL Oh, and I hope someone will let me fly on a carpet!

Or perhaps this was Cecelia Ahern's Here! That'd be positively amazing, too! No, sirree, if this place is anything like any of those, I'm gonna stay right in this world! Believe me, there are some definite perks to being single!

Right. But right now I was just standing by the side of a deserted country track somewhere in the middle of the nowhere. And that's not so much fun. So I'd better get going and see if I could find some civilization of some sort. Find out where I am – in a place I'm familiar with, or maybe in a place that I haven't read about yet. That'd be cool, too. Wait – what if I had been transported to another planet?

I looked around. The trees and the grass and everything looked perfectly normal. So did the sky. Gravity felt normal, and the air seemed to consist of the normal mix my body needs. Okay. Another planet would probably be way down on the list of possibilities, but I didn't quite rule it out as yet.

Right. So I had to get moving. Which way? Most roads didn't just go from nowhere to nowhere, so whatever direction I took, I was likely to get somewhere. I looked at the sandy track in both directions, and decided to go north – or what would have been the road back to the town of Hammelburg if I was still back where I was a few minutes ago. I don't really know why, but it seemed logical.

So I zipped up my backpack again, slung it over my shoulder and set off on my very own adventure into the unknown. "Right, Jimmy! Let's find out where we are!"

And whistling the tune of _Can You Give Me Directions to Hamelin, Sir,_ I happily started searching through my (slightly rusty) Dutch vocabulary for words that more or less rhymed with either "Sombrië" or "Bambergen", with the goal of adapting the lyrics for my own purposes.

I'm pretty bad at estimating distances, but it seemed to me the "northbound" track was considerably longer than the stretch of main road passing through Lager Hammelburg. And when I finally left the woods behind me, it turned out I hadn't landed on top of a hill range either. So I had definitely been moved *somewhere* else.

A short distance ahead, surrounded by grassy fields and patches of wood, lay a small town. It had nothing remarkable that I immediately recognized, but where there's houses, there are living beings. So I continued on to the town, crossed the bridge over a small brook that had cut out a large... well, coming from pancakeland, I'd call it a ravine, and...

_"Shit...!"_ (Don't flinch, please; in Dutch, this is about the mildest cussword you can use, and nobody even bats an eyelid when young kids use it. I've certainly learned to avoid using it in the presence of English speakers, but right now, there is no one around to hear me say it!)

Coming around the last curve in the road, I suddenly had a clear view of the outer rim of the town there. Normal brick houses, some half-timbered ones, nothing out of the ordinary, but... from the window of one of the houses hung a large red and black flag – with in its centre a swastika...

I slinked back around the curve of the road again, to the relative safety (ahem...) of the small patch of wood that blocked my view of the town, and vice versa.

Okay, so I've landed somewhere in Nazi country. In Nazi time. Like in the infamous story of the Mary Sue Experiments. Sure, I've read it at least a dozen times, and Snooky and I liked it so much that we even had a go at following up on some of the strands that had been left dangling at the end of the story. But since we had no real experience with it, that particular endeavour didn't go very far.

Could it be that there was a new Mary Sue Experiment in the making? And that this time, I did get involved in it? But then I should have touched... Oh... Of course. Whatever it was that stupid soldier wanted me to hold for him, that must have been the time travel watch.

But why? Why would he want to send a complete stranger back to Nazi time?

I didn't see any logical explanation, and that's something that always irks me. Either way, I'd better forget about the Januarian Embassy and Bambergen and Sombrië and Here and the likes. Looks like this wasn't going to be a place and time in which I would prefer to remain. Of all the places I would love to end up, I had the bad luck of ending up in Nazi country...

So what was I going to do? My passport would hardly be compatible with today's standards for ID paperwork. So if this was Nazi time, I'd better not go into town. Better stay out of sight until I could figure out what to do. Perhaps in the woods? I had seen quite a lot of blackberry bushes with ripe fruit along the way. Not very filling of course, but I love fruit and it would certainly keep me from starving. And certainly I recalled enough from my time in the girl scouts to fabricate some kind of shelter.

Thinking equalled doing, and so I began to retrace my steps to the woods where I had landed. And believe me, I felt a lot less carefree than I had been the previous time I walked this route.

But I didn't get far. The sound of an approaching car left me with only a moment to contemplate hiding, and before I could even come to a decision, the car was already next to me. And stopped. Yikes... Hopefully they were just going to ask the way. Of which I had absolutely no clue, so they could drive on right away.

"Bärchen darling, look! A traveller!" I heard a female voice from inside the car.

I couldn't make out the grunted reply, but the lady continued, "And since we're going in the same direction, we might as well give her a lift, don't you think?"

I saw "Bärchen" look at me, giving me a critical once over. From the little I could see of him, he was obviously a military man. And judging by the car, probably big brass. "If you insist," he granted her with a sour mien.

"Great! Hop in, darling! We're going to have so much _fun_ together, with that adorable Klink and the clever Colonel Hogan! I've told you about them, haven't I, Bärchen?"

Another grunt, while I was struggling not to let my jaw drop. Klink? Hogan?!

"Are you going to Stalag 13?" I blurted out.

"But of course!" the lady crowed. "And you, too, no? I knew it the moment I saw you! Now, hop in, darling! We wouldn't want to let the Kommandant wait, would we."

I hesitated. I mean, I had no idea who this was. Or rather, I had a suspicion who it was. I sure didn't know the grumpy officer, but the whole speech pattern, the attitude... it just _had_ to be...! And if it was really such a good idea to get entangled in her clutches...? After all, I couldn't automatically assume that she really was the person I had extrapolated her to be. And if instead she was indeed as the show portrayed her, or even how Sgt. Moffitt portrayed her, perhaps the best thing to do was simply to turn and run.

"Come on, darling – we haven't got all day."

Then again, Stalag 13 meant Colonel Hogan and all the others. In a way a safe haven in this dark and dangerous Nazi world. So yes, perhaps going to Stalag 13 would indeed be the sensible thing to do. At least I wouldn't have to live off just blackberries.

The door next to the driver's was pushed open, and suddenly I came to a decision. "Alright. I'll come to Stalag 13 with you. And thank you for the lift. " And I slid the backpack off my back, and clambered into the car.

"Wonderful!" the lady exclaimed as the car set into motion again. "I knew we'd be friends the moment I saw you! So what's your name?"

"Um... Margrethe."

"Margrethe... Margarita in my beloved Russia!" She winked at me. "And do you know who I am?"

I barely dared to look back at her, but it didn't matter.

"You guessed, no? That's why you came with us." She laughed. "Don't worry, darling. I know all about you. We will talk – later. But first..."

"Marya," came it sourly from her companion, "I do not think it is appropriate for you to divulge too much information at this point. I would appreciate it if you could keep quiet about the plan until we are in the proper company."

"Of course, Bärchen," Marya (yes, so it was her indeed!) purred. "My lips are sealed."

I finally did dare to cast a glance back at her, and got a languid wink in return. It was Marya alright. Not quite as we knew her from the show – her hair was definitely darker. But the Slavic features, the bright eyes, not to mention the fur coat and all the jewelry were obvious tell-tales. When added to her entire demeanor and speech, there could be little room for doubt: this was the lady on whom Nita Talbot so expertly had built the mysterious and often annoying character of Marya on the show. How the heck had she known? How could she have nailed the character so precisely? I would have loved to ask if perhaps they had met when the show was being filmed, but I figured I'd better not. Space-time continuum and all that.

Meanwhile, we were speeding along the track I had walked down before. I had no idea exactly where I had appeared in this universe – it all looked the same to me. But apparently, if I had happened to choose the other direction, I would have ended up at...

"There it is: my dear little Stalag 13!" Marya exulted, waving her arm about as if presenting the place to me. "The toughest POW camp in all of Germany! No one _ever_ escapes from Stalag 13!"

The big shot humpfed. "Marya, please...!"

"Oh, Bärchen, are you not the least bit excited to finally see the camp you've heard so much about?"

"I am not. We are here on business, Marya, so please curb your excessive exuberance a little. You are making a spectacle of yourself."

"Ah, but business mixes so well with pleasure..." She tickled him under the chin. "You will see: we will have a marvellous time here. Kommandant Klink is a most attentive host, and Colonel Hogan is such a fun person! And now that Margarita here has joined us, we have all the ingredients to make our plan work."

"What plan?" I asked, more than a little mystified by the allusion.

Marya made a shushing movement in my direction. "Later, darling. First we need to get into the camp."

The car had stopped in front of the gate, and the driver opened the window for one of the guards.

"Heil Hitler," the old man greeted. "Ausweis, bitte."

Without a word, the driver silently handed over his papers. And then Marya, and then "Bärchen", and then...

"And this lady?"

"I will vouch for her," Marya told him in a sultry tone.

The guard gulped. "But..."

"I said: I will vouch for her," Marya repeated, suddenly switching to icy tones. "Besides, what is she going to do? No one ever escapes from Stalag 13, right?"

"Right." There was a vague note of pride in the guard's voice as he straightened himself and saluted. "Mittendorfer, open the gate for General Hahn! Mach schnell!"

The other guard hurried to open the gate, and slowly the car entered the bare compound where dozens of prisoners were lounging about, looking utterly bored. All eyes followed the car that may be promising a change to the humdrum of every day prison routine. But there was one prisoner – a small guy with a red beret and a long matching scarf – who literally jumped with joy. From the corner of my eye, I spied some gesture of Marya's, but I didn't really see it. And when I looked back, the little guy had disappeared.

If this was Stalag 13 indeed, it could have been LeBeau. And I grinned to myself. Despite everything, perhaps this could be fun. Or at the very least interesting.

In the meantime, the driver had gotten out of the car and opened the door for Marya. Not used to such male gallantry since I left Uppsala university, the thought didn't even enter my mind that he might come around to help me out of the car as well, so I simply got out myself. And took the opportunity to take a good look around me before a rather harried voice caught my intention.

"General Hahn, it's so good to see you! Did you have a good trip? And Fräulein Marya... ahem. Welcome, as always, Fräulein. And please, who might this lady be?"

Klink. It had to be. I turned around to take in him as well. And yes, it was pure Klink, with monocle and riding crop and all.

But before I had a chance to think about what to tell him, Marya had come around to my side and took my arm. Forcefully, I dare say. "Klink darling, guess what we caught on our way here! A very dangerous prisoner!"

"What?" I squeaked. "And you said...?"

Marya ignored me; she just continued with her spiel. "Oh, I was _terrified_ when she stopped us along the road and threatened us! But Bärchen here... I mean, General Hahn, he is so cunning! He saw through her charade right away, and with great danger to himself, he managed to capture her! And now we're handing her over to you – after all, what better place than Stalag 13?"

Klink nodded obligingly. "Jawohl, Fräulein Marya. No one ever escapes from Stalag 13."

Marya beamed at Hahn. "Didn't I tell you, Bärchen? Now, please, Kommandant. Put this dangerous lady behind bars, before she causes any more trouble!"

"Jawohl, Fräulein." Klink bowed slightly, and clicked his heels. "Schultz!" he then bellowed.

"But...!" I began.

But Marya squeezed my arm. Hard. "Be careful with her, Kommandant. You never know what she might be up to."

And there was Schultz. _The_ Schultz. "Jawohl, Herr Kommandant?"

"Schultz, put this lady in the cooler."

Schultz gave him a puzzled look, but didn't question the order. With one hand, he grabbed my other arm, with the other he saluted and once more, he said proudly, "Jawohl, Herr Kommandant."

He began to pull me along, and believe me, he was strong. But I did manage to half turn back to Marya for a moment and utter a sarcastic, "Thanks a lot."

A broad smile was all I got in return.


	13. Ugly Crying (Tuttle4077)

**Ugly Crying**

**Written by Tuttle4077**

Heartburn. Oh, the heartburn!

Now, heartburn at the best of times is pretty miserable. Heartburn when you're pregnant? That's worse. Heartburn when you're pregnant and stressed out of your mind because you've been flung 70ish years into the past with only a slim chance of getting home? Well, you get the idea.

And boy, was I stressed!

The watch didn't work which meant until Hogan could think of something else, we were stuck here. Maybe permanently. He had said we would try the watch again, but I wasn't too optimistic. But I supposed I would find out in a week and a half. The anxiety of waiting was killing me.

I didn't let myself entertain that thought too much. But even if we did get home, how much time would have passed? Last time I was sent home from here, a whole week had gone by. Luckily I had been on vacation so no one really noticed (although my mother was miffed that I didn't contact her once the whole time I was gone).

But now? There were no excuses. No international vacations to cover up my absence. I had simply disappeared while swimsuit shopping at the mall. What if I didn't come back for a week? Or a month?

My husband has MS- he couldn't take that kind of stress. Would he even be a functioning human being when I got back? Or would his brain be just one big scar?

And what about my daughter? Sure, I knew she was safe- thank goodness I had dropped her off with my folks instead of taking her to the mall with me- but she was a mama's girl through and through. She would miss me terribly. Or, worse, she would just forget about me. How good is a two-year-old's memory? Plenty of children that young forget their parents after a while.

Oh gosh! She was going to forget me!

And what about the baby? I had _finally_ been booked in to see my OB- was I going to miss the appointment? When I got back, would I have a different due date? My mom would be so disappointed- I was due the day after her birthday and she was hoping baby would come a day early. Oh GOSH! What if I stayed here so long that I had a baby in 1943?! Did they even have car seats back then? Vaccines sure weren't a thing. My grandpa had polio when he was younger. Was my baby going to get polio?! Rheumatic fever? My Bobo had that. And what about all that lead paint they used back then? And the asbestos? I didn't want my baby growing up in the 40s!

On top of that, some of the authors- at least the younger ones- had taken to look to me as their survival guide of sorts. After all, I had been here before. I knew the ropes. At the very least, I knew where the showers and the latrine were. But, really, what else did I know? It had been eleven years since I had been here. And, honestly, the only advice I could give was to not tick off the heroes, no matter how tempting it was to pester them. And that was advice I hadn't exactly followed myself.

So, yes, I was a little stressed out.

Golly I needed an antacid. But I had, understandably, burned through my little Ziploc bag of Tums pretty quickly over the last couple of days. And I wasn't about to go ask Wilson for anything. Not for all the money in the world. I think he was still sore at me for suggesting that Caroline use the watch even after what it had done to me.

Luckily I knew a perfectly amiable pharmacist.

Colonel Hogan didn't want us wandering through the tunnels. In fact, if he had it his way, we'd all be locked into the cooler until he could figure out what to do with us. But, obviously, he knew he couldn't do that, so he had set out some ground rules- certain areas that were off completely limits. Carter's lab being one of them. But I knew that he was in there- he had come down into the tunnels earlier- so I quickly made my way over.

Carter was sitting at his desk, pouring over something. Maybe he was trying to figure out why the watch wasn't working. Which meant I probably shouldn't have bothered him, but, gosh, the heartburn was bad.

I gave a little knock on the door frame and he looked up. He pegged me with a somewhat disapproving look, but there was just a tiny hint of amusement that tugged at his lips.

"Hey, you're not supposed to be in here," he scolded.

"I know, but I'll be quick," I promised as I slipped into the room and let the curtain drop to cover the doorway.

"All right? What's up? What's shakin', bacon?"

I quirked an eyebrow. "What's shakin', bacon?" I repeated in amusement.

"Hey, it's your saying, not mine."

Oh right. I kept forgetting we had spent a bit of time together the last time I was here. We had even shared a bit of a heart to heart before I had left for Hammelburg to play spy games.

"Fair enough," I said with a little laugh. "I was just wondering if you could whip me up an antacid. I've got enough heartburn to light up the city of Toledo."

"Yeah, sure, I can do that for you," Carter said. "Pull up a chair. And don't touch anything," he added, with a hint of long-suffering. Boy, these guys were suspicious!

I obediently sat on a stool and made a show of putting my hands firmly in my lap. Carter smirked, but then went about poking through his shelves and cabinets, grabbing a few ingredients here and there. Then he set them on the table and pulled out a worn book. Probably his Guide to Pharmacy.

"Gosh, it's been a while since I've done anything like this. I've been making bombs for the past couple of months, and before that, well, I didn't even have a chemistry lab. It's almost like I'm a civilian again!" he said cheerfully. "Just gotta do a quick refresher here. Nothing to worry about."

"I'm not worried," I replied. Then I waited silently, not wanting to distract him. My mind quickly wandered back to my earlier, less-than-cheery thoughts.

"You okay?" Carter's question broke me out of my contemplation.

"Yeah," I lied. "Why do you ask?"

Carter held up a box of something, peering at the label, and shrugged. "I don't know. You're just awfully quiet. It's not like you."

I snorted. "Not like me, eh?" I said. It was amusing that Carter thought he knew me. He had, after all, only spent a few days in my company ten years ago. I, on the other hand, knew him quite well thanks to the show and a plethora of fanon theories that seemed completely legitimate.

"Well last time you couldn't stand even a minute of silence. I couldn't shut you up!"

"Pot, kettle."

Carter laughed. "You've got me there. But you gotta admit it's not like you. Where are the jokes?"

"Oh, you want a joke, eh? Okay. There's a pan of muffins in the oven and one muffin says 'boy is it getting hot in here' and the other muffin says 'ah! A talking muffin!'"

"I'm sorry I mentioned it," Carter said, but he still chuckled. Dumb jokes. They'll get you every time.

I shrugged. "Honestly, I've chilled out quite a bit in ten years, so you're probably pretty safe from any more terrible jokes."

"That's a relief." He tilted his head to the side. "You don't _look_ ten years older. I mean, you do look older, but not ten years older."

"Eh, people back then, back now aged faster I think. Life was, is, pretty rough and a lot of super unhealthy things were commonplace. You know, like smoking." I pegged him with a disapproving look. "That stuff'll kill you, you know." At this, Carter looked skeptical and I suppose I couldn't blame him. After all, doctors were recommending cigarettes back in the 40s, weren't they? I remembered hearing ads on The Bob Hope show about 9 out of 10 doctors smoking Lucky Strike brand cigarettes.

"And besides," I pressed on, "what am I going to talk about? You wouldn't understand any of my pop culture references, I can't really talk about the future because it might screw up the timeline, and I don't want to talk about my family because I'll probably end up bawling my face off. So, it's best to just sit pretty while you whip up my antacid for me."

"Well that shouldn't be too hard for you."

"Aw, are you saying that you think I'm pretty?" I asked teasingly.

Carter shrugged. "I've been in the army for two years. Even Frau Linkmeyer is pretty at this point."

I laughed. "Rude!"

Carter just shrugged as he poured something into a beaker.

"Look, if _you_ don't like the silence, you can always do the talking."

"Me?"

"Oh come on, like you're not dying to chat your head off," I said skeptically.

"What would I talk to you about?" Carter asked, a hint of suspicion in his voice.

"I don't know. Your philosophy on life. How do you feel about the war and your role in it? Are you glad you're a prisoner, at least here at Stalag 13? Sounds like a crazy question, but you do a lot of valuable work here that you probably wouldn't be doing otherwise. What was it like growing up in the depression and The Dust Bowl? What are your plans for after the war? I don't know, pick a topic."

Carter's suspicion grew. "You're just going to use anything I say for your stories," he accused.

"Maybe, but at least then I would have accurate information. But, honestly, Carter, even if I weren't a writer, I would want to know. You're my favourite hero. And I'm sure you have lots of good stories."

"I'm your favourite?"

"Of course."

"Gee, I thought everyone was in love with Newkirk. Heck, Iron America kissed him the moment she saw him."

"Welllllll... yeah, he's a fan favourite. But not mine. I mean, I like the guy, but you're definitely the best. So, come on, spill."

Maybe that was just the little ego boost he needed to get over his reservations because, after a moment's hesitation, he did start to talk. "I guess I am glad to be at Stalag 13. You're right; we do a lot of good work here. It's just a shame that..." he trailed off a bit.

"That?" I asked after a moment.

Carter sighed. "It's just a shame I had to be shot down to end up here. A lot of good guys died in that crash. And then I was sent to Stalag 5 and that was..."

A haunted look crossed his features and I realized that it probably hadn't been that long since he had been shot down, or had been transferred to Stalag 13. The wounds were probably still pretty fresh. War scars everyone, whether they're physically injured or not. Carter's story wasn't unique- everyone here in camp had probably lost friends when they were shot down. Everyone had probably endured terrible prison conditions, unless they were lucky enough to be sent to Stalag 13 _after_ Colonel Hogan took command. I remembered recently reading a story about how horrible Stalag 13 had been before Klink and Hogan arrived, and I wondered how much of it was true.

Poor Carter. He shouldn't have had to go through any of that. None of them should have. And suddenly, my heart broke for him, for all of them even though I could never really understand the sacrifices and terror they had been through. Sure, I could write about it, read about it, watch movies and documentaries about it, but I had never seen the devastation of the brutality and realities of war written on the face of someone sitting across from me. And it made me wonder, for a second, if I truly appreciated how their sacrifices had made my life so easy and safe.

Instinctively I reached my hand out and rested it on his. He looked at in surprise and then quickly pulled it away.

All right then. No touching.

"Anyway, I'm here now, and that's a good thing," he said, waving his hand a bit in the air as if he could dispel the memories that had momentarily disturbed him. "It's great. Before I was just another serial number on a dog tag. A cog in a sometimes not so well-oiled war machine. But here? Here I'm... useful. Not because I'm just another body to stuff into a plane, but because I actually know things and can do things that only I can. Well, I mean, anyone who knows chemistry could probably do it, but there's no one here who knows as much as I do," he said quickly. "It's nice to be needed. And respected. And," he grinned sheepishly, "I get to blow things up, so that's really great."

"Yeah, I remember the train," I said tightly. I remembered, in particular, how giddy he had been and the resentment I held towards him for it, but I quickly shook those memories away.

"And as for my philosophy on life," he continued, "I guess it's that bad things happen and life can be rough, but nothing can be solved if you have a bad attitude. You just gotta keep your chin up and press on."

"I like that. That's a good philosophy."

"I wish I could get Newkirk to think that way a bit more. He's a real cynic," Carter said, and I wondered if perhaps it was a little dig based on jealousy that Newkirk was the obvious favourite amongst us writers. But I had never pegged Carter as the jealous type, so probably he just wished Newkirk would lighten up a bit.

"Oh, I don't know," I said slowly. I proceeded to tell him about some of the stories I had read about Newkirk's back story- the ones that had really made me see him in a different light. Stories about his family, his father, the poverty, and the kicks to the teeth life had given him. And, I concluded, if even a tenth of all that was true, then the fact that Newkirk turned out to be an even half-way decent man, let alone the hero we all know, shows a level of optimism and moral fortitude. Carter couldn't quite argue with the conclusion, confessing he really didn't know that much about Newkirk's history and could neither confirm nor deny my theory. But the whole topic seemed to make him extremely uncomfortable, so I steered our conversation away from the other heroes and my speculations, and instead focused it back on him with some light-hearted questions.

We both quickly forgot about my original reason for being in his lab. I think, maybe, it was a bit cathartic for him to have someone to talk to who didn't roll their eyes every three seconds at his homey stories. He told me about his folks, and his siblings, his farm, his horse, his drugstore. Eventually we did get back into more serious territory, mostly because I'm nosey, and I'm not afraid to ask questions. And, though I had no intention of doing so at the beginning of our chat, I ended up telling him about what I had been doing in the last ten year. Turns out Carter could be pretty nosey too.

And that, unfortunately, led me to talk about my family.

Big mistake.

As I predicted, it didn't take more than a few minutes for my voice to crack and then I started to bawl. I'm talking _all_ the ugly crying.

And Carter, well, I guess he did the only thing he could do when confronted with a sobbing woman- he hugged me.

I cried. And cried. And cried.

I was _never_ going to see my family again. I was never going to see my husband again. Never hear any of his stupid, groan-worthy puns again, or just sit up with him and talk about everything and nothing all night. He was my best friend. What was I going to do without my best friend?

And my daughter? She was my baby. She was a part of me. I'd do anything for her.

And I was _never_ going to see her again.

I didn't even have a picture of her, except on my phone, and who knew how long I would be able to keep that alive? I'd be like that woman in that TV show, _Revolution_, who carried around her dead phone because it was her only connection to her children. Would I eventuallyforget what my daughter looked like?

My daughter was going to grow up without me. I was going to be dead before she was even born. Heck, I was probably going to be dead before _I _was even born.

And what kind of life would my new baby have? It would just be the two of us. No family. No friends. Not one person to care about us or help us? I couldn't do this on my own!

I was _never _going to get back home. I was going to be stuck in the 1940s as a single mother, unable to prove I had ever been married, in a time when that just wasn't done. I would be branded, cast out from polite society.

Maybe I could use my education to get a decent job, but I doubted it. Did they even have calculators back in the 40s? I didn't even know what a slide rule looked like! Did accountants even use slide rules? Wait, what was a slide rule again?

Forget the slide rule!

And besides, once the boys came marching home, weren't a lot of women pushed out of the workforce? I'd likely be forced to scrape by on menial labour.

In short, I had a lot to cry about.

But no matter how broken your heart is, no matter how sad you are, eventually everyone runs out of tears. There's only so much you can cry before you lose all energy. So, after a while, I stopped crying hysterically and was reduced to a series of hiccups and sniffles.

Carter handed me a handkerchief and I wiped all the tears and snot off my face (_all_ the ugly crying, remember). And then, with a little awkward, half-hearted laugh that was mostly a hiccup, I wiped off Carter's shoulder. "Sorry about that. That's gross."

"S'okay."

There was an awkward pause and I immediately felt the need to apologize profusely for my outburst. Pregnancy hormones, am I right? But before I could, Carter suddenly grabbed me by the shoulders and pushed me away a little.

"Hey, look at me." He didn't give me a chance to refuse as he grabbed my chin and forced eye contact. "We _will_ find a way to get you home. I _promise_." I blinked and wondered if I had said any of my fears out loud while I had been sobbing. "Do you believe me?"

Well, he was so earnest that I had to believe him, didn't I? "Yeah," I said dumbly. And then, after a deep breath I nodded. "Yeah, I believe you," I said a little more firmly.

"Good. Now-"

He was interrupted by Newkirk tearing open the curtain to the room. "Bloody hell, Carter, what have you been doing down-" He stopped and looked at me with a raised eyebrow. "Why am I not surprised to find you here?"

I wiped my nose again with the handkerchief. "Sorry."

Newkirk rolled his eyes with a huff. "Can't get anything through your heads, can you? Never mind, back to your quarters before the Colonel catches you. Let's go, Carter."

Carter glanced at his watch. "It's not time for roll call, what's going on?"

"It's that woman. She just pulled into camp."

"What woman?" Carter asked. My curiosity was also piqued. Another author? Maybe one from before?

"Never mind, just hurry up," Newkirk said impatiently.

Carter quickly stood and hurried to the door. "You can find your way back to your quarters?" he asked me.

"Yep."

"Good." And with that, he and Newkirk disappeared behind the curtain.

"What's the matter with you, Andrew," I heard Newkirk say as they retreated down the tunnel. From the 'ow', I suspected his question had been accompanied by a smack upside the head.

Poor Carter.

I stood up with a sigh, feeling slightly light-headed from all the crying. It was then I realized that Carter never did get around to making that antacid.

Oh well. I didn't think I would need it so badly now.

After all, I was going home.

Carter promised.


	14. Vertically Challenged (Snooky-9093)

**Vertically Challenged**

**Written by Snooky-9093**

I was seated at the table in the common room, talking with Abracadebra and Tuttle and trying to avoid eye contact with Colonel Hogan. Baker was keeping lookout at the door, while LeBeau was at the stove, fussing over some soup.

I was now surprisingly calm. Knowing that Abracadebra was here was certainly part of that. I couldn't figure out why I was not panicking. Perhaps it was Hogan's command presence. He certainly had an air of capability about him, although I also sensed exasperation. I think the fact that I had been familiar with the original story (although I had to keep reminding myself it was not a story, but real) elevated me in Hogan's eyes.

The soup smelled delicious. I ladled some into everyone's bowls, and then offered some to Hogan. He looked appalled at the suggestion.

As I sipped the soup slowly, savoring the flavor, I couldn't help but mull over the past events, shuddering at the memory.

* * *

I heard someone ask, "Sue is that you?" And then I fainted. Or that's what I was told. Now, I'm not a fainter. I've been lightheaded. I've had the room spin. But fainted? Never. It must have been a side-effect of the time jump, because I did lose consciousness. I awoke on a cot with a cold compress on my forehead. Looking above and around me, I saw dirt…I was in the tunnels.

"Oh good. You're back with us! You've been out a long time," said a voice. "Wilson thought it was because of your height. Or lack of it…sorry, Ma'am."

I took off the compress and turned my head. The man blushed. I didn't recognize him, but then again, I assumed the soldiers down here did not actually resemble their TV counterparts.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"Davis, Ma'am. Can you sit up? I was told to take you up to see Colonel Hogan as soon as you were awake."

He offered me his hand, which I took. I sat up and dangled my legs over the edge of the cot. After a few moments, I realized that I no longer felt lightheaded or faint. That didn't remove my utter terror, but I managed to suppress that for the time being and nodded at the soldier. "I think I'm okay." For a moment I thought I had forgotten something, and then it hit me. "My purse!"

"Don't worry, Ma'am. It's up top. I'll take you there."

Glumly, I followed Davis to the ladder leading up to what I assumed was the barracks. Sure enough I emerged from Kinch's bunk and into the common room. It did not resemble the common room of the show, but I had more important things to worry about at the moment. I was stuck either in a very realistic dream, or I had actually been transported to the real Luft Stalag 13 in the real WW2. And the MSE story was real.

"Wait here." Davis walked over to what I assumed was Hogan's office. He knocked on the door, and opened it several inches. "Colonel Hogan," Davis said. "She's all yours, sir."

There was a black soldier over by the door leading to the compound. I assumed he was the lookout.

"Thanks, Davis." The door opened and Hogan motioned for me to come in.

I slowly walked over and entered the room. I had butterflies in my stomach, but I took a few deep breaths and calmed my nerves. Who wouldn't be nervous? This was Hogan, after all. He closed the door behind him and then offered me a chair.

"How are you feeling?" He asked.

"Okay. I think. But I'm cold." I was wearing shorts, a t-shirt and sandals. "It was July back home," I added.

"We'll get you warmer clothes," Hogan said. "It's October. Abracadebra…she's here and says she knows you….she told me your penname. Snooky9093?"

I nodded. "You can call me Susan or Sue. I'd prefer that," I said in a small voice.

"Fair enough," he said.

He stood there gazing at me; sizing me up I thought. This was not the TV Hogan. He was very handsome, but there were no twinkling eyes, no sense of everyone being in on the joke. This man was harsher and he was deadly serious.

"So," he said. "You've been around this Fanfiction thing for quite some time?"

"Yes." I sighed.

"And you've read the adventures of the original time travelers."

I nodded. "What year is this?"

"1943," he answered. "You've arrived not long after they've left. There are now five of you."

1943\. Now I didn't feel so well.

I came to…this time on Hogan's bottom bunk. He was seated at his desk. A shorter man; muttering in French, was over by the door.

"You fainted again, Madame," he said with sympathy.

"Oui, je sais. _**Vous êtes,**_ LeBeau?" I wasn't in my right mind. Why was I speaking in French? Did I bang my head?

Big mistake. LeBeau, talking a mile a minute, answered me in French. I couldn't follow. I was so out of practice, I doubt I could follow a high school dialogue.

"Oh, my head," I exclaimed as I rolled over and sat up. I noticed that this time no one was being chivalrous and helping me. "You're going too fast. I can't understand you."

"LeBeau. In English." Hogan ordered.

"Sorry, Madame." He walked over. "Have some tea. This should make you feel better."

"Thank you." I gratefully accepted the offer and took a sip from the mug. It was hot, but weak. The best they could do, I imagined.

Hogan stood up. "You seem to be a bit susceptible to these time-travel side effects," he noted.

I could see the look on his face. He was wondering if it was my size. No, that was stupid. Frankly, I think it was because I was terrified witless and my brain couldn't deal with the shock or the knowledge that I was actually indeed stranded here in 1943. I had to compose myself. I asked, "Who else is here…besides Abracadebra?"

"Tuttle, Leah, you, and a young girl named Caroline," Hogan replied. "If you are feeling steady, please come over to my desk."

Hogan offered me the same chair I was seated in before. I tried not to think of who carried me from the chair to the bed and I didn't ask. He then retrieved a blanket from the top bunk and put it around my shoulders. It was thin and scratchy, but I appreciated the gesture. I was concerned about the others, especially Tuttle. I wondered if this time travel thing was like _Outlander_. Four years in the past meant four years went by in 20th century England. I hoped not.

He picked up my purse and I began to feel the signs of anxiety and stress popping up in my stomach. I watched as he began removing items one by one. He put my calendar aside…I now assumed he had been through my belongings…and did the same with the memo pad. The business cards went in the same pile. He glanced at the keys and smiled and then put them aside as well. I froze as he took out my wallet, emptying its contents in front of me.

"I know your full name, age…not a bad photo, by the way."

"Thank you?" I replied, as LeBeau, still standing there watching over me like a mother hen, for this moment at least, chuckled.

Hogan was obviously familiar with credit cards and insurance cards; I assumed he already seen these on the other time travelers.

Satisfied for the moment; after all, there was really nothing unusual in my wallet…he'd have no idea what Kohl's was…he leaned forward. "LeBeau…take notes," he ordered, handing the corporal a clipboard.

I was in for an interrogation and he hadn't even looked at my smartphone.

"Do you have any relatives fighting in the war?" he asked.

"Lots," I replied. "My dad is in the Royal Navy. I have no idea where he is at the moment. Or he could be with the Merchant Marine."

"Royal Navy." Hogan got up and began to pace. "You're American," he stated. "LeBeau, go find Newkirk. Where is your father from?"

"London," I replied. "He was born in the East End, but later moved to Stoke Newington."

"We'll put this aside for a moment." Hogan reached into my purse and brought out my phone.

"You didn't try to hack into that did you?" I asked, fearful that my IPhone was locked…for good.

Hogan looked at me, insulted. "No…why would I do that?" He grinned, and handed me the phone. "Open it up," he ordered.

It was "sleeping," and I quickly turned it on to the passcode screen. I then looked at Hogan and shook my head.

"No," I stated.

"No?" Hogan parroted back at me.

"No. I don't have much on here. I never wanted one of these in the first place. But two years ago, my old slider phone committed Hari Kari over one weekend. It was awful. My contacts were disappearing right in front of my eyes. And then the Verizon store said they didn't make that phone anymore and I had no choice but to pay a lot for a flip phone, or to go to a smartphone. They were all too big and cost so much money, but then my friend upgraded and gave me hers. This one. I only needed a new battery. And…

"You're rambling." Hogan said. "Stop."

I tend to ramble when I'm nervous. "There are things on here you shouldn't see."

"Your contact lists…I really don't care. Look, Sue, I know we can use your fingerprint, and believe me; you don't want us doing that.

That sounded menacing and I gulped.

"So just do me a favor and open up the phone."

I bit my lip. "Fine." Now I was getting mad. This was good, as it was better than being scared.

I put in my passcode while Hogan watched. He then took the phone. "Cute dog."

"Thanks," I replied. "She was a rescue. She died in 2015."

He began scrolling through the photos. Some were very embarrassing, including videos of exercises taught to me by my instructor at the gym. I cringed, but Hogan didn't open those. He paused at photos of my family. My husband standing by a steam train. My youngest daughter in pointe shoes performing in the Nutcracker. My eldest with her cat.

"Shoot!" I shouted." Stop! Seriously, stop! You can't see some of those photos. Give me the phone." I had photos on there he could not see. Normally, I post pictures on Facebook and Shutterfly and then delete them from the phone. I had snapped a shot of my dad's atlas, showing where his ship traveled and where he was on D-Day. I recalled I hadn't deleted it. And my trip to see WW2 planes in New Jersey last summer? They were still there.

Hogan was a colonel. I was a short, terrified, baby boomer, but surprisingly, I managed to channel my inner chutzpah and my demand was met. Hogan was a bit shocked at my outburst, but he handed me the phone.

"Thank you." I deleted the photos. "There," I said. "It's safe now. If you're that interested," sarcasm and snark dripping from my voice.

As he was about to reply with an equally snarky retort, the door opened.

"Who's this we 'ave then? Another Londoner?"

I turned. It was Newkirk, in the flesh.

"Newkirk, this is Snooky. She prefers to be called Sue or Susan," Hogan said.

"Pleased to meet you, finally. Awake that is," I said.

"She fainted again," LeBeau whispered.

Newkirk grinned and walked over. "Tell me about your Dad, then."

I gave the corporal a brief history of my dad's life up to this point. His one first cousin was also in the service. He had another who was killed; he was shot down; but I could not remember the year. I left out his name. My American uncle-he married my mom's sister-was currently stationed in England as a plane mechanic. Wouldn't it be a coincidence if he and Hogan were at the same base? I put that thought out of my mind.

"What's your dad's full name, then?" Newkirk asked. I wrote it down and he handed it to Hogan.

After speaking with me for several minutes, Newkirk, LeBeau, and Hogan walked over to the other side of the room. I heard some words pop up…London, paradoxes, meeting one's grandparents.

"I don't want to go to London. That's what you're thinking aren't you? I want to go home," I demanded.

"No one's going to London yet," Hogan replied. "And if you do, you won't have any chance of running into your family; I promise. "

"I have to go home," I repeated. "I can't stay here, in Germany…with Nazis. I don't care how chivalrous Klink is. I can't be here!" I was on the verge of hyperventilating again. I could feel it.

"Take it easy, luv." Newkirk came over to me. "The guv'nor won't let anything 'appen to you." He glanced at Hogan.

"Newkirk, take her to the rest of them, before she faints again, and then tell Kinch to see if he can have London track down her father's whereabouts."

Hogan was harsher in this world, but something in his eyes told me he would keep me safe. He knew what I knew…I couldn't forget that part of the original adventure, and he knew why I was so panicky. It was irrational of course; these were the heroes, and they could come up with disguises, fake papers, etcetera, but that didn't make it any easier.

Before corralling the rest of the group so we could meet, Newkirk took me to the wardrobe area of the tunnels to see if he could find me some warmer clothing. We ran into one of the men on the way and Newkirk introduced me to Olsen.

Now, Olsen is one of my favorite extras and I've written about him in multiple stories. Unfortunately, we did not get off on the right foot.

He looked down at me. "Wow, I heard you were short, but not that short!"

I stared at him for a moment, considering in what world would a soldier speak to an older woman that way.

"I prefer to consider myself vertically challenged," I snapped.

"It's going to be a challenge finding you some clothes," Newkirk mumbled.

"I don't sew," I told him, "So don't expect me to do any alterations." I glared at Olsen, who, deciding it would be easier to help Newkirk find some suitable garments, backed away and headed over to some boxes.

Between the two of them, they found a sweater and a pair of pants. I managed to fit the pants over my shorts, and Newkirk pinned them up so I wouldn't trip. The shoes were a big problem. There was nothing anywhere near a woman's size four or five. I was forced to put on some socks, and wear them with my sandals. This looked ridiculous, but I had no choice.

"I'll have to go into town and find some children's boots for you," Newkirk noted.

"I'll get them," Olsen told him. "I know where to go."

"I'd appreciate that," I said, politely, not wanting to make an enemy out of the Outside Man.

Now that I felt warmer, I had a reunion of sorts with the rest of the time travelers. This made me feel a lot better. In fact, I immediately became concerned about Caroline and Tuttle being here. Meanwhile, the situation I was in produced an adrenaline rush, giving me a clear head. I quickly stifled any teasing about my height; the men knew when they had gone too far. I knew I could be useful. I had a good grasp of history, and I recalled some things from the original adventure. I knew we all had to work together to solve this mystery.

The common room became a bit more raucous after Caroline and Leah came up. It appeared we were being kept on a tight leash. Not only that, but we began answering back, causing Hogan and his men fits.

It was agreed that we would try the watch again in two weeks. And despite what Hogan told me in his office, London was not off the table.


	15. LeBeau

**LeBeau**

It had been two days since the Colonel had laid down the law and the authors had been pushing the boundaries. They seemed to find every opportunity to "need" the heroes (to talk to them, more like). He was in the office with Kinch discussing plans for how to handle the authors. LeBeau had stopped in twenty minutes ago and they were preparing a list of chores. Perhaps if their hands were kept busy then they wouldn't have time to do all the things they promised they wouldn't, but most likely would try to do anyway - like putting a half-mug of cold coffee next to important and highly sensitive radio equipment!

Carter was in his lab, doing goodness knows what. Baker was at the radio and Newkirk had gone out to scrounge more ingredients to feed the five extra mouths - mouths that couldn't just head to the mess hall. Leaving LeBeau in the barracks alone, scraping out the lunch bowls.

_Eel soup, ha!_ He thought irritably. _She would not talk so much if she_ had _tasted my eel soup. Canadians... only a smidgen less barbaric than Americans!_

He knew she was teasing him, baiting him to get a reaction, but that Tuttle... he didn't know what was worse, dealing with her all over again or dealing with the new ones. He growled in frustration as he plunged the bowls into the hot, soapy water.

"What's the matter, Louis?"

LeBeau looked up. Olsen was coming up from the tunnel. He'd just swung his legs over the side and was tapping the trigger to close the entrance.

"We're having a nice, normal war - I might go so far as to say that I think we might be winning," he said, pulling a bowl up and scrubbing furiously. "Then this happens... _again_!"

"I left them in the library. They were oohing and ahhing over first editions; they'll be out of our hair for a little while. Anyway, they're not that bad." LeBeau grunted before Olsen continued. "I mean it. Besides, we thought they'd be nothing but trouble last time and it turned out okay."

"They _were_ nothing but trouble and we barely got them out of here!" LeBeau argued, his passionate comments raising the efforts he spent on the dishes, sending water sloshing over the sides and onto the table. "And then they came back! What happens if that's all we do? Send them one minute and they reappear the next. We will never get this war finished. Women do not belong in war."

"What about Tiger?"

LeBeau glared at him. He knew what Olsen was doing and he wasn't going to put up with it. "This isn't about prejudice against non-French women," he said slowly, calming down just enough to not sound crazy. "These - these... authors have no idea what it takes to be in this war. They are soft. I will bet you one week's worth of the dinner of your choice that at the first hint of conflict they will break."

Olsen shook his head, "I'm not so sure. Tuttle's not the same woman we sent back last week and Abracadebra and Sue can handle themselves."

"And the child?" In truth he liked Caroline, she was a sweet kid, but in his sour mood he was likely to complain about everyone.

"You heard what the Colonel said: it took guts to try that watch after what happened to Tuttle. This batch is pretty calm and cool-headed considering."

LeBeau appeared unconvinced, but kept his mouth shut. He just knew there was going to be trouble and he didn't understand why Olsen was sticking up for them. Where was Newkirk's pessimistic common sense when you needed it?

The bunk raised and one of the authors - Leah? - poked her head up through. "Hi," she said cheerfully. "I was wondering if there was any soup left? If not, that's okay. I can make pancakes instead."

LeBeau shot Olsen an I-told-you-they're-trouble look before abandoning the dishes, stomping out of the barracks. He paced around the corner of the barracks, catching sight of Newkirk and the German supplies officer. They appeared to be haggling and if the frown on Newkirk's face was anything to go by, the kraut was driving a hard bargain.

He turned back and walked some more, taking deep, slow breaths to calm down. The October breeze was a little biting and he shoved his hands into his pockets to keep them warm. The other prisoners were milling about the compound trying to enjoy the last moments of autumn weather, while keeping their weary eyes on alert in case some more women dropped in.

A German staff car pulled up to the gate and stopped, the driver exchanging words and papers with the guard. LeBeau stepped forward a few paces, squinting his eyes to see into the back seat. Was that...

The guard handed back the papers and after a moment signaled for the gates to open. One of the guards in the gate house picked up the phone, likely calling Klink's office, as the car rolled in slowly.

LeBeau finally got a great view of the passenger and he jumped in excitement. His beloved. Marya spotted him from the window, winked and blew a kiss. He turned and scrambled into the barracks. He felt like the sun had just come out from behind the clouds. He went over to Hogan, who was bawling the author out.

"You can't come up here anytime you please," he was saying, giving her the sternest look he could. "It was one of the few rules we gave you."

"Few rules, my eye," she spat back, her hair bobbed around she moved her head back and forth. "The tax code has fewer rules than you guys."

"Guv," Newkirk said, bursting through the door. "Staff car just pulled through the gate with that Russian bird."

Hogan's eyes went heavenward while Leah gawped. "She's real too?!"

Hogan took control. "LeBeau, take Leah down to the tunnels and secure her with the rest of them. The last thing I want is for Marya to find out..."

"Too late," Newkirk said. "Marya brought in a woman wearing jeans. Klink had her taken to the cooler."

Hogan groaned. He knew the 'her' was the author, but for a brief moment he'd hoped - wished - it had been Marya. He repeated the original order, adding, "Newkirk, find Carter and make sure all the men are up top... and all the women are downstairs!"

Hogan grabbed his cap and headed for the door, while LeBeau and Newkirk ushered the author to the tunnel entrance. Newkirk turned down one path while LeBeau pulled Leah down the other way, back to the library.

"Marya's real!" She blurted out the moment she stepped into the room. Caroline looked up from her chicken book, stunned, while Abracadebra and Sue shared a concerned look.

_Big mouth_, he thought. He did a head count and frowned. _Where's Tuttle?_

As if on cue, she appeared behind him, her eyes and nose were red and she was sniffling a little. Of course she was out exploring too. Aloud he said, "Stay here all of you. If I find out you've set one toe out of this room, I will cuff you to a pole and throw away the key."

Without waiting for the sarcastic back talk he was sure to receive, he hurried back through the tunnels, climbing up through the bunks (pausing once to consider disabling the trigger before dismissing the idea), and crossing the room to Hogan's office, where the rest of his comrades were already connecting the coffee pot. Static-y voices started to come through and they all leaned forward. Time to find out what was going on.


	16. Bunnies and Cats (konarciq)

**Bunnies and Cats**

**Written by konarciq**

_Klang!_

"I am sorry, gnädige Frau."

Yeah, I'll bet he is... Once more he pulls at the bars of the door to make sure it's properly locked, and then he waddles off. With my backpack.

For a moment I remain staring after him. But once I hear the outside door fall shut and being locked, I turn around and take a look at the cell I've been put into. Would it be one of those with an exit to the tunnels? Well, it's worth a try.

So I get down on my hands and knees (ouch...) and start inspecting the floor. But really, there's not much point there – it's a massive block of concrete, without even the slightest crack. Better try my luck with the walls then.

There are indeed a few promising cracks there, but my nails aren't anywhere long or strong enough to get any leverage. Against my better judgement, I go through the pockets in my jeans. But as usual, there's absolutely nothing in there.

How about the window then? It's quite high up in the wall, and already from where I'm standing I can tell that nothing bigger than a rabbit is going to get out that way. But can I look out from there?

Maybe if I move the bed (or what is supposed to be a bed) under it?

That doesn't work either – the "bed" is nailed to the floor. Hm. So it seems that until there'll be any outside help, I'll be stuck in here. That stupid Marya...

Suddenly indignation really boils over. What did she say – she wanted to use me in one of her plans?! How could I have been so stupid as to believe her! I know her schemes usually end up doing Hogan and the Allies a favour, but... "Just trust me", oh yeah... I should have run the moment I saw her, and go and live off blackberries in the woods!

Despondently, I drop down on the "bed". Ouch... that was harder than I expected. I pull up my legs on the cot, and for a while, I just sit there, contemplating my predicament. And slowly it's dawning on me, that the situation is not looking particularly good.

I'm in Nazi country. In Nazi time. And in prison. It may be Stalag 13, but what's going to happen to me? What game is Marya playing? The only good thing about her is that if she's involved, Hogan will be involved as well – at least in the show. How is it here? Somehow I'm pretty sure this is *not* the show where I've ended up. Or a dream.

Just to make sure, I pinch my arm. Hard. But no, it hurts. So it's not a dream.

And what about my stuff in Hammelburg? What are they going to do with that? They probably won't notice that I'm gone until tomorrow morning, when I don't check out of the hotel. What do hotels do with the stuff people leave in their room? Throw it away?! Oh my... I don't mind my clothes etcetera, but I left Boefje and Abbe at the hotel! They wouldn't throw them away, would they?!

It's actually more distressing to worry about what's going to happen to my two favourite bunnies than what's going to happen to me. And the fact that I've got Jimmy here (even if he's now in the Kommandant's office or something like that) does not give much solace. Much as I love him, he hasn't even been with me for a full year yet, whereas Boefje and Abbe are practically life companions. I can't bear to think of them being thrown in the trash and burnt on the garbage dump...!

Which means I need to get back. And fast! Question is: how?

I get up and start inspecting the cell for a second time – even more carefully than before. Where is that stupid trap door when you need it? I need to get out, I need to...

Suddenly I sit back on my heels. Yeah, I need to get out of this cell. But then what? If this is really like the Mary Sue Experiments, perhaps Hogan still has the watch and can send me back right away. But what if it's not? What if this is some other time travel situation and Hogan hasn't got a clue?

What if...? What if...? What if...? What if...?

I bury my head in my hands and rake my fingers through my hair. This isn't going to work. I need to calm down. There is nothing I can do right now, except... yeah.

I move over to the cot, and still kneeling on that painfully hard floor, I lean my elbows on the mattress and bury my head in my hands. If I've ever had reason to pray, it's now. And not only for myself, but also for the rescue of a rubber and a pluche bunny. He'll understand. I hope.

* * *

In the end, I have to get up because my knees can't take that hard floor anymore. So instead, I try to make myself comfortable on the cot. I've gotten rather cold kneeling on that concrete floor. But fortunately there's a blanket. It's not much – hardly more than a worn plaid – but it's nice to wrap around me.

And now what? What is Marya planning? Why did she have me thrown in the cooler? What if Colonel Hogan can't get me out? Or doesn't see a reason to get me out? What's going to happen to Boefje and Abbe? And what if...

Stop. I take a deep breath. And another one. Going around in circles isn't going to help. There is nothing I can do about the situation right now, but I need to distract myself, simply to stop thinking.

But what have I got? Schultz has taken my backpack, and... Oh. I know. And with a small grin, I start singing:

"_Just trust me, why don't you, you know that you can_

_Hogan darling, you will see, it's a brilliant plan_

_Hey, why don't you just trust me, you know that you can_

_Hogan darling, you will see, it's a brilliant plan..."_

Wow... the acoustics here are great! Like singing in the bathroom, or down in the laundry cellar at home!

"_In the General's pocket, there are plans for a rocket_

_Long distance rockets that will..."_

Uhm... I don't think I should be singing this. At least not here... Wouldn't want to give Hogan's operation away now, would I?

Okay, something else then. I start going through my HH repertoire in my mind. _The Little Strudel Boy_? No, it mentions Colonel Hogan bringing a plane into camp. _The Explosions Song_? No way. And _Let It Blow_ is off limits, too. How about _A Mission That Couldn't Be Done_? Nah, the Germans better not find out about supply drops from London. The good old _Hogan's Heroes March_ is out, too – that reveals far too much. _Ten Young Ladies_? Yeah, that one might actually work, but I don't recall half of the verses. _Le Chef du Stalag 13_ then? No, that has stealing plans in it, too. And bribing Schultz. _The Ode to the Kommandant_? Maybe better not; and the_ Iron Eagle Song_ is out, too. Wait: _The Owl in the Chimney_ should be safe enough! Still, fun (and safe) as it is, I'm not particularly fond of the melody,so I'd rather sing something else. Maybe _The Barber of Stalag 13_ then? There is nothing immediatelyjumping to my mind there that could endanger the operation, and I quickly scan through thedangerous part of the text... Seems pretty safe, as long as I just sing the lyrics. Problem is, I don'tquite remember how it started, and starting in the middle of the song is no fun.

Sigh. Maybe I should just leave the HH repertoire for what it is, and go for something more neutral. Like the real _Figaro_ – at least I know the lyrics of that one. And I've got my whole beloved binder full of classical and semi-classical songs at home. Surely I can sing those.

Hm. Would I upset the space-time continuum if I sang something that hasn't been written yet?

Okay – I'll try to stick with the real classical stuff. As far as I know, that is, because there's quite some songs in that binder of which I have no idea from which era they originate... When it comes to music, I'm far more interested in the practical applications than in the theory...

_Figaro_ then? That's Mozart, so that's pretty old. But much as I love it, that's a quite demanding piece; maybe I should start with something a little easier. _Voi Che Sapete_ then – that's Mozart, too, and besides it's one of my favourites.

So there I go. Starting with _Voi Che Sapete,_ and slowly building it up: _El Condór Pasa_, _Send in the Clowns_,_ Memory_, _The Amsterdam Canals_, _Azzurro, _yeah, the whole idea of the space-time continuum disappeared out the window pretty quickly. _Va Pensiero_, _Die Juliska_, _Im Salon zur blauen Pagode_, I_m weissen Rössl_, _Funiculì Funiculà_, and yes, let's do _Figaro_ as well.

By now, I'm standing up and kinda pretending I'm on stage (but without an audience, please – I don't like singing solo in front of an audience...). The acoustics are great, and right now I simply don't care if anyone hears. Singing just makes me feel good, and keeps any gloomy thoughts at bay. I know by experience, that within five minutes of stopping my singing, I'll be back to worrying. So we'll just sing on and on for now.

_Ah, bravo, Figaro! Bravo bravissimo!_

_Ah, bravo Figaro! Bravo bravissimo!_

_A te fortuna, a te fortuna, a te fortuna non mancherà!_

_Lalala lalala, lalala lalala, lalala lalala, lalala lalala_

_A te fortuna, a te fortuna, a te fortuna non mancherà!_

_Sono il factotum della città, sono il factotum della città_

_Della città, della città, della ci-ttààààà!_

"Very nice."

I whip around – it's Schultz again. "Boy, you gave me a scare!"

"I am sorry." He eyes me with curiosity. "You are a singer?"

"Not really. Well, I love singing. But I'm not a professional, if that's what you mean."

He nodded. "Before the war, I was in an operetta group. I liked it very much." He hesitates. "Do you know _Komm mit nach Varasdin_ perhaps?"

I nod. "I love that song. Just makes you happy."

He smiles. "It was the last operetta we did before I was called into service. I was Tassilo." A short silence follows; he's clearly with his mind on that last performance. And then, softly, he starts to sing.

"_Ich bitte, nicht lachen, der Riese, der Sachen_

_Der Amor, der hat mich so gepackt_

_Die Urkraft der Triebe, das Feuer der Liebe_

_Ich weiss nicht genau wie man da sagt"_

I can't help smiling and continuing – I really do love this song.

"_Ich find' es ergötzlich, dass sie gar so plötzlich_

_So stürmisch ihr Herz für mich entdeckt_

_Sie sparten, mit Worten nicht, mit zarten_

_Doch müssen sie noch warten, sie haben mich erschreckt!"_

His turn again:

"_Das geht nicht! Ich dichte nicht, ich red' nicht_

_Ich bin auch kein Poet nicht, ich sage nur"_

And together we get into the infectious refrain:

"_Komm mit nach Varasdin so lange noch die Rosen blühen_

_Dort woll'n wir glücklich sein, wir beide ganz allein_

_Du bist die schönste Fee von Debrecen bis Plattensee_

_D'rum möcht' mit dir ich hin nach Varasdin_

_Denn meine Leidenschaft brennt heisser noch als Gulaschsaft_

_Und in der Brust tanzt Herz mir Czardas her und hin_

_Komm mit nach Varasdin, so lange noch die Rosen blühen_

_Dort ist die ganze Welt noch rot-weiss-grün"_

I'm the one who's supposed to start the second verse, but suddenly I feel rather awkward, and look away from him.

"Don't you remember how it continues?" he asks gently. "Da kann man nix machen..."

I nod, but I don't look at him. "Yeah, I know it. Maybe some other time, okay? When there's no bars between us."

He searches my face, but in the end he nods the okay. "I've brought you some food," he then says, and hands me some kind of tin with – I guess – soup or something through the bars. "It's not much, but... I'll be back later to pick up the tin."

"Thanks."

He turns and leaves, and suddenly I'm all alone again. With a tin of soup. I sit down on the cot, and carefully take a sip. And grimace. It's pretty salty. Probably not so good for my blood pressure, but I've got to eat, I suppose. No knowing how long I'll be stuck here.

My determination doesn't last long. It's really way too salty for my taste. And you can't sing while you're eating, so my mind immediately begins to spiral down in all those fruitless and worrisome 'what if' questions again.

No. I've got to stop this. And I think I know just the song for venting my frustration.

So I get up again, and stand in the middle of the cell. I take a deep breath, and...

"_Mee-ee-ow, mee-ee-eow!" _I go in my best "angry cat" imitation.

"_Mee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-eeow!_

_Mee-ee-ow, mee-ee-eow!_

_Mee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-e-eow!_

_Mee-ee-ow, meow!_

_Mee-ee-eeow, meow!_

_Mee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-e-e-e-eeow!_

_Meow!_

_Meow! Meow! Meow! Meow!_

_Mee-ee-eeow!"_

"Holy cats!" I hear behind me.

* * *

Tuttle's Note: I've just gotta trust that everything in German is spelled right here :P


	17. Hogan 2

Tuttle's Note: It's not too late for any other authors out there to join in the experiment!

**Hogan 2**

He didn't know who he ticked off, or what supreme power was holding a grudge against him, but it was obvious that someone was out to get him. Otherwise he couldn't explain why _she_ had pulled up in camp. Not now.

Marya: the White Russian he had met in Paris while trying to save Tiger from the Gestapo and always showed up at the most inconvenient times. She was brash, loud, infuriating, mysterious... and a genius. She had all the makings of a useful ally, except for her annoying habit of keeping him out of her plans. And he knew she always had a plan. She only pretended to give him control over the situation. In reality, she knew exactly what he would do and had plans for that too.

Yes, she was infuriating. A force of nature. And she was here. Why, he could only guess, but something told him it had to do with his temporal visitors.

Leaving his men to gather around the coffeepot, Hogan grabbed his cap and ventured across the compound and to Klink's office. He didn't bother with a courtesy knock and instead barged in. Klink was enthusiastically greeting Marya and her companion.

Klink looked up at his entrance and stomped his foot. "Hogan, what are you doing in here? Get out."

"No sir," Hogan replied. "My men just informed me that a new prisoner was brought into camp and as the senior and only officer here, I demand to see him and make sure he has been treated in accordance to the Geneva Convention."

Klink didn't have a chance to answer when Marya opened her arms grandly and cooed. "Hogan, darling, at last we meet again. Why it has been ages! Are you not happy I have to see you in your little Stalag again?"

"It's hardly _my _Stalag. Colonel Klink here rules this place with a fist of iron," Hogan replied.

"That's right!" Klink crowed proudly. "We have never had a successful escape here, General Hahn!"

"But of course," Marya said loudly. "Hogan would never leave here, would you, my darling? You are exactly where you want to be, are you not?"

"I can think of a few places I'd rather be right now," Hogan said stiffly. At the moment, the pits of Hades would be a welcome change. "About the new prisoner, Kommandant?"

"You will have a chance to speak with him in due time," Klink said.

"Her, not him, Kommandant," Marya. "The most unusual traveller, would you not say, Bärchen? With the most unusual clothing as well. Of course, I knew we must bring her here for safe keeping. Perhaps she is a spy, no?"

Hogan raised an eyebrow. Was the prisoner another time traveller? He shouldn't have been surprised. Of course it was another time traveller. And of course, she had to end up in Marya's clutches. Hogan could only hope that Marya hadn't put too much thought into the traveller's appearance. But then, what sort of conclusion could she possibly draw from it? Time travel was nothing more than science fiction to most people- that was unlikely to be anyone's first suspicion. But then again, Marya wasn't just anyone.

"Very unusual," General Hahn agreed. Hogan took a moment to look him over. He seemed stiff and annoyed, like most of Marya's German companions. But there was something vaguely familiar about him that Hogan couldn't quite pin down. He searched his memory, trying to think if their paths had ever crossed before, but he came up short.

"Colonel Klink, it is my understanding that you recently hosted a party for several prominent scientists," Hahn continued. "Is this true?"

"Scientists?" Klink said dumbly, turning a little pale. "Let me think..." He knew which scientists the general was referring too. And while he didn't know what had actually happened to them, he knew enough to know they probably wouldn't be found any time soon. "Well, I-" he looked to Hogan desperately.

"As a matter of fact, we had a swell party not two weeks ago," Hogan said cheerfully. "A whole bunch of people were invited. The Kommandant here is very popular around town, you know. I can't say for sure if there were any scientists though. I do know Major Hochstetter was here though. He's our friendly neighbourhood Gestapo." He let the word Gestapo hang in the air.

"I told you Stalag 13 was a fun place, Bärchen!" Marya boasted. "But the most strangest thing has happened, Colonel Hogan, darling. I _know _your guests included several scientists. And they seemed to have vanished into thin air. And their lab? Blown up! And of course, there has been much worry made over them. Apparently they were working on something most interesting."

"Oh?" Klink said nervously. "Oh, I remember now. Yes, there were a few gentleman accompanying Major Hochstetter. Perhaps they were scientists, but of course I would not know. And if they did mention any projects, interesting or otherwise, as a loyal German officer, it was my duty to not listen!"

"Yes, yes, you are very loyal, is he not, Hogan darling?" Marya said.

"Very," Hogan confirmed to Hahn. "A real Nazi, our Kommandant."

"Very loyal," Klink confirmed. "But, speaking of vanishing, it seems that Major Hochstetter has also disappeared from town. Perhaps it is related?" Klink ventured timidly.

"So no one escapes Stalag 13? They just disappear?" Hahn asked.

"Not from Stalag 13, I assure you! But from the Gestapo..." Yes, everyone knew it was quite easy to disappear when the Gestapo was involved.

"I remember seeing them all leave in their cars," Hogan confirmed. "So they couldn't have disappeared from here. But, boy, were they sloshed. Maybe they never made it back to town?"

"None of them?" Hahn asked skeptically.

Hogan shrugged. "I wouldn't know. My knowledge is limited to what happens within the fences of Stalag 13."

"Of course, Hogan, of course! You are just a helpless prisoner, are you not?" Marya said. "But these scientists, perhaps you noticed they brought something odd with them? A very interesting watch? My dear Doctor Drebber, he was a genius, but not very good with secrets, especially when beautiful women were involved. He could not wait to show me his little invention. But, alas, he disappeared before he could."

Hogan mentally cursed. Of course. He wasn't surprised. Nothing about Marya surprised him. Of course she knew the scientists, knew about their project, knew about the watch. She must have caught wind of it somehow and had used her charms- and she was charming despite her boisterous, loud personality- to entrap one of the scientists, mollifying and manipulating him into giving her his secrets.

Damn, she was good.

No doubt she wanted to get a hold of the watch herself and turn it over to the Russians. Hogan couldn't help but shiver. Sure, the Russians were their allies- now. But they weren't always, and he doubted they would continue to be once the war was over. Stalin had just as much blood on his hands as Hitler. If the Russians had the ability to travel through time, who knew what sort of damage they could inflict on the world.

"A watch?" Hogan repeated. "I saw a few wristwatches. Could you be a little more specific?"

"I think not," Hahn said before Marya could speak up again. He was obviously annoyed with how much information she was giving away. "But since Dr. Drebber and the other scientists were here last, I think a search of the prisoners' barracks is in order?"

"Yes, of course," Klink hastily agreed. "Schultz? SCHULTZ?"

A moment later, Schultz poked his head into the room. "Herr Kommandant?"

"Schultz, General Hahn wants a thorough search of the prisoners' barracks. Assemble the guards."

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant." Schultz ducked back out, but then reappeared a second later. "Oh, Colonel Klink, I almost forgot." He stepped in. "I removed this from the prisoner," he announced as he held out a black bag.

"Very well, Schultz put it-"

"I will take that," General Hahn said, snatching it away from Schultz. He regarded it for a moment, and Hogan swore he heard him stifle a groan.

"Fascinating, is it not, Bärchen, darling? Perhaps I could-"

"Marya," Hahn warned before slinging the bag over his shoulder.

"But it is so undignified for a _General_ to carry such a thing that way," Marya protested.

"More undignified, I think, for it to touch your lovely furs," Hahn sneered back.

Marya primped her furs, snuggling her cheek into her shoulder. "Of course, Bärchen. You are so considerate." There was a glint in her eyes that told Hogan she was intent on getting that bag. Well, he would have to do something about that. If the prisoner was from the future- and the design and make of the bag left him in little doubt of that- who knew what sort of futuristic items were inside.

"Sergeant Schultz? The inspection?" General Hahn said curtly.

"Of course, Herr General. Follow me, please." Schultz held open the door and bowed slightly as Hahn went through. He looked at Marya, unsure if he should usher her out to. Marya didn't seem in a hurry to leave.

"Marya, perhaps you should wait in the car," Hahn said. It was more of an order than a suggestion.

"But of course, Bärchen, darling." The tone of her voice very much implied that she would do no such thing. But she followed him out the door anyway. Schultz clicked his heels, saluted Klink, and then left as well.

Hogan spun on his heels, intent on heading back to his barracks when Klink stopped him.

"Hogan, wait!"

Hogan stopped and swiveled back around. "Colonel?"

"Hogan! Hogan they _know_! They know about the Eloi! They must! They must know about Wilhelmina! She said they had to save the future from Major Hochstetter. What if they took him and the scientists back to the future with them? Or what if they-"

"Calm down, Kommandant," Hogan said. "I don't know what happened to Hochstetter or anyone. Those women played us all for fools. But whatever they did, it's a sure bet that they're long gone, back to the future, no doubt."

"But the new prisoner? That bag. Do you think-"

"If she is from the future, what business is it of ours? Besides, she probably has some sort of ray gun to get herself out of the cooler. She's probably exactly where she wants to be right now."

"Yes, I suppose you are right," Klink said thoughtfully. "After all, if she is from the future, she must know everything that will happen in the past. Or, would she? Because the past happened without her and now that she is here-"

"Stop," Hogan ordered before Klink could get too far into his thoughts. Klink gave him a hard look but Hogan started speaking again before Klink could berate him. "I'm sorry Kommandant, but I don't understand any of this time travel stuff and it's all going to give me a headache. What I do know is if those women _were_ from the future, then they apparently did what they needed. And if they came back, they will make sure everything works out. They did the last time, didn't they?"

"But they didn't! Now I have a general wondering where a group of missing scientists are! And I have no answers for him! What am I going to tell him?"

"I would suggest playing dumb. Think you can handle that?" Hogan asked lightly.

"It will not be easy," Klink replied.

"Try."

"Very well." Klink paused. "Hogan, do you think that perhaps Wilhelmina..."

Hogan shrugged. "It looked like true love to me, Kommandant. Do you think a little time difference can stop true love?"

"Maybe not," Klink said wistfully as he looked off into space.

"May I be dismissed?" Hogan asked, but his hand was already on the door knob. Klink waved him away, suddenly lost in more romantic thoughts.

Hogan slipped out of the office and hurried into the compound. Unsurprisingly, Marya was not in the staff car parked outside the kommandantur. But where was she?

He had a good idea.

He marched straight towards his barracks. All his men were in the common room, tidying up. Apparently the guards had made quick work of their search but hadn't found anything. Newkirk caught his eye and nodded towards his office. Hogan grunted and straightened his jacket before marching in. He stopped in his tracks.

Marya was not there. Instead, General Hahn was standing near his desk. The German had his bible in his hand, reading it intently. Hogan frowned. A Nazi reading the bible? That was a laugh.

"Learning anything?" Hogan spat contemptuously.

General Hahn looked over at him and then gently- almost reverently- put the book down on the desk. "I don't suppose Marya is in the staff car, is she? Did you see?"

Again, Hogan was surprised. Hahn's clipped German tones had disappeared, replaced with an easy-going American accent.

"No, she wasn't," Hogan said slowly. He knew he should be worried about that, but right at the moment he had more pressing concerns.

"Figured." Hahn shook his head. "I should've just shot her. But, unfortunately, she's too important."

Hogan felt uneasy. "Who are you?" he asked suspiciously.

"My name's not really important," Hahn answered. "General Hahn will do."

"All right, General Hahn, care to explain what the hell is going on?" Hogan said hotly.

Hahn shrugged. "I'm here to collect the watch."

"What watch?" Hogan said, taking the advice he gave to Klink to play dumb.

"The one you have down in the tunnels. I figured I would ask you for it. But if you prefer, I can just go to Kinch's bunk, open the entrance, and get it myself."

Hogan tempered his expression, hoping he didn't look as surprised as he felt. What the hell was going on? Who was this man? How did he not only know about the tunnel, but the exact way to enter it? Not even Marya knew that, to his knowledge.

"Tunnels, watches, entrances under bunk beds? I have no idea what you're talking about, General."

Was there a hint of fondness in the smile General Hahn was giving him? "Right. Look, I'll level with you. I work for The Central Intelligence Agency."

"The Central-" Hogan cut himself off. The CIA. This man was from the future?

"We want that watch for safe keeping. After your recent adventures, we're worried about anything else happening to it. We can't afford to let it fall into the wrong hands."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Hogan said, unwilling to give the man an inch.

"You don't trust me. Can't say I blame you. Maybe if I hadn't shown up with _her_," he said with undisguised regret. "Unfortunately I popped in on her and since I couldn't kill her, I had to give her some explanation. Not the whole truth, but enough to get her to cooperate. Not that she needed any explanation. Read me like a book. She's damn clever."

Hogan grunted in agreement. "And just where did you pop in from?"

"Don't you mean when?" Hahn asked with a little smile."Washington. 2008."

2008? Another unexpected surprise. That meant that he didn't know about the recent batch of authors. If he was telling the truth then he must have travelled back not long after the other authors arrived home.

"So you're from the future?" Hogan said with a forced laugh. "Yeah, all right." Hogan shook his head and took off his cap, tossing it onto his desk. Then he swung into his bottom bunk, slipping his hands under his head. "That's quite the story, General, but time travel belongs in fiction books."

From the corner of his eye, Hogan watched Hahn reach deep into his coat and then pull out a little device. He tossed it onto Hogan's stomach. Hogan didn't flinch, didn't bother to look at it.

"You know the passcode," Hahn said. "When you've had a chance to look it over, meet me in town with the watch. I'll be staying at the Hausserhof Hotel and will be having dinner every night at 7. I'll give you three days. And then I'm afraid I'll be coming for that watch myself. But I wouldn't wait too long. I can't guarantee I can keep Marya contained for that long."

And with that Hahn straightened himself out, the cold German exterior descended on him once again, and he marched out of the room. Hogan watched him go. As soon as the door closed he jumped to his feet, the device slipping onto his bunk, and ran to the door. He pressed his ear against it and waited until he could hear the door to the barracks shut before he entered the common room. Without a word, he rushed to the door, opened it slightly and peeked out. General Hahn was nearly at his car when Marya sauntered out of Klink's living quarters, a sly smile on her face. What had she been doing in there? Apparently Hahn had the same question because he and Marya seemed to have a heated exchange. Marya ended it with a loud laugh that Hogan could hear all the way from the barracks, before she slipped into the car. Hahn looked perturbed before he too got into the car. A moment later, they drove off.

"Blimey, Colonel, what was going on in there?" Newkirk asked, jerking his thumb towards the office.

"We heard your conversation in Klink's office," Kinch added. "Was the General looking for the watch?"

"And where was that Russian lady this whole time? And how did she know about the watch?" Carter asked.

"She can only want what is best," LeBeau said hotly. "I know her. She is as pure as the driven snow. Whatever she knows, it will be to our benefit."

LeBeau's comment set Hogan on edge. "Knock it off LeBeau. You know we can't trust her."

LeBeau was about to protest, but Hogan was having none of it. "She's obviously after the watch, and who knows what will happen if she gets her claws on it."

"Claws!" LeBeau squawked. Hogan shot him a dangerous look.

"But what about the General, Colonel?" Kinch said before a real argument could start.

Hogan sighed. "He says he's from the future. 2008 to be exact. Works for the CIA."

"That's the intelligence agency from the future, right?" Carter asked. "Oh. Intelligence Agency. But what does the C stand for?"

"Never mind!" Hogan said, exasperated.

"2008, guv? But all the authors we have now, they're from 2019."

Hogan rubbed his forehead. "You know, I don't mind saying that I think I hate time travel! Anyway, he wants to take the watch back with him."

"Do you believe him?" Newkirk asked, his tone suggesting that he didn't.

"I don't know what to believe! He gave me some sort of device, said I would know the passcode. Maybe he thinks it'll prove his story. He's given me three days to get the watch to him otherwise he's going to come for it himself."

"He won't find it though," Carter pointed out. "It's safe in the tunnels."

"Except he knows about the tunnels. The entrance and everything."

His men were stunned at the information. "Bloody hell," Newkirk said. "If he's not from the future then how did he know about that?"

"We could have a breach of security somewhere," Hogan said grimly. It would be so much easier to take Hahn at his word, but he couldn't risk it. Couldn't risk handing the watch back over to the Nazis. Couldn't risk ignoring the possibility of a security leak.

"Maybe you ought to look at that device," Kinch suggested.

"Yeah, all right, although I don't know how he expects me to know the passcode. Carter, Kinch, go check on that new prisoner in the cooler. Find out when she's from. 2008? 2019? 2300? Just find out who she is and how the hell she got there."

"Right." The two sergeants threw him a salute and went to Kinch's bunk.

"Colonel, the authors- they know Marya was here," LeBeau told him. "And they knew who she was. They will be curious."

"And nothing good can happen when those birds are curious," Newkirk added.

"Oui. Should we tell them what is going on?" LeBeau asked.

Hogan groaned. He did not need any of them butting their nose into this particular situation. But if he didn't give them any information, he knew they would do whatever it took to find out for themselves. They were relentless.

"Tell them what you have to," Hogan said with another groan.

"Oui, come on, Newkirk." LeBeu tugged on Newkirk's sleeve and they too disappeared into the tunnels.

Hogan sighed and went back into his office. The device lay on his bed and he eyed it suspiciously. It was similar to the phones most of the women had on them, but it was much bigger. Hogan scooped it up and inspected it carefully. Then he pressed the button on the bottom. The screen lit up, demanding a passcode. Hogan thought for a moment.

0876707.

The screen opened onto a picture of the watch with a ruler beside it and a placard with a description. Hogan swiped his finger across the screen which showed him another picture of the watch from another angle. It must have been the 2008 watch. Hogan had to wonder why Hahn was so fired up to retrieve the current watch if they already had it in 2008. Highly suspicious. But then, he had said that others might try to come for it. Perhaps the first set of authors had changed the past somehow. Or, at least, had made it murky and unknown. Or maybe Hahn was worried about someone in the future going after it.

Again he felt the need to massage his temples. Time travel.

There were a few other pictures- reports, newspapers, buildings, futuristic cars. Hogan paused when he came across a picture of a sleek red convertible. Nice. Too bad he probably wouldn't live long enough to see such things in person.

The pictures all blurred together as he swiped through them. They looked futuristic enough. But how did he know that Hahn hadn't just stolen the device from the prisoner in the cooler? That was a very likely scenario.

Hogan scrolled through a few more pictures but suddenly came to a stop. The picture on the screen now was of an old man sitting in a chair with a young man standing beside him, his hand on his shoulder. Hogan studied the picture intently. They were dressed in futuristic clothes, all right, but not quite the same style as the ones he had seen on the women, or even on Buy-a-cougar when he had popped into camp. The young man, he soon guessed, was Hahn, probably some years earlier. But the old man...

Holy cats.

What had Marya called Hahn? Bärchen? Little bear.

HOLY CATS!

No, it had to be some sort of trick. And even if Hahn was from the future, how did Hogan know he was playing for the right team? He didn't care _who _Hahn was, that didn't guarantee he was a good guy. What if he and Marya were in on this whole thing together? Hell, what if Marya was from the future? That would explain a lot.

Hogan realized he was panicking. Shock. He had to be in shock.

A knock on the door snapped him out of his downward spiral. "Come," he said hoarsely, his mouth suddenly very dry.

Newkirk came in. Tuttle hesitantly followed. Hogan groaned. He didn't remember telling Newkirk to bring anyone up with him. If anything, he expected one of his men to maybe bring the new prisoner/author, but not Tuttle.

"Newkirk?"

"Tuttle's got something to say," Newkirk said.

"What else is new? All right, what is it?"

Tuttle hesitated. "Well, I mean, I don't know if I can help. It's not like I work for the CIA or anything, and it's not like the agents and I exchange Christmas cards. And it _has_ been ten years, so even if I do know him, I'm not sure I would remember. On the other hand, I've always been good at remembering faces even if I suck at names, so-"

Hogan held up a hand. Why did these women insist on babbling? "Get to the point."

"Right. Well, when we you sent us back- you know to 2008?- we spent a little bit of time at a CIA facility being interrogated on what happened while we were here. We met a few CIA agents. And I thought, maybe, if this general really is from the future and attached to the whole mess, I thought maybe... maybe I would recognize him if I saw him and be able to confirm his identity."

Hogan paused to consider what she had said. Then his eyes slipped to the device. Was that proof enough? Could he trust it? Trust Hahn?

It _would_ put his mind at ease to have confirmation. Hogan quickly weighed his options. If Tuttle did recognize him, that would mean he was legitimately from the future and an agent for the CIA- on their team.

"All right," he said coming to a decision. "Newkirk, tomorrow night at seven you and your lovely little wife are going to have dinner at the Hausserhof Hotel. You-" he pointed at Tuttle- "will keep your mouth shut and do exactly what Newkirk tells you. No going off course to blow up a bridge." Tuttle nodded obediently. "Hahn should be having dinner there. You're just there to observe, no engaging him, whether you recognize him or not. Understood?" Again she nodded. "Good."

"At seven, Colonel?" Newkirk repeated. "I'll miss roll call."

"Don't worry about that. Schultz will get his 15 men. _Corporal _Wigman will be taking your spot in line."

"Right. Well then, back down in the tunnels with you," Newkirk said, shepherding Tuttle out. "Let's get started on some papers. And I'll need to get you into a suitable dress. Hopefully I have enough fabric."

"Rude!" Tuttle protested as the door shut behind her.

Hogan shook his head. Hopefully those two didn't kill each other.

His eyes went back to the device and he picked it up again. Entering the passcode brought the picture up again and he studied it intently.

Yep. There was no denying it.

On the bright side, he didn't look half bad as an old man.


	18. The Little Things (Old English Game)

**And All The Little Things**

**Written by Old English Game**

I think I would have gotten a much better reception at Stalag 13 if the _last_ teenage girl to bust in here hadn't A) Kissed Newkirk, B) Cussed out multiple German officers in Star-Trek language or whatever the heck _that_ was, C) Sang a song about how much she hated Colonel Hogan and D) Other events which elude my recollection at the present moment.

As it was, it was going to take a bit to prove that I had a good head set upon my shoulders.

So I had planted myself on the bench in the library, and I intended to stay there unless acted upon by another force. Abracadebra and Sue were there, too, apparently catching up on fifty-something years of never speaking to each other. I don't know that either of them had paused for breath since they got started. Leah had gone off in search of something edible. Which was understandable, I was kind of hungry, too, but no way was I planning on admitting that to anybody. Some of these guys hadn't seen their families since 1939, maybe longer, I could go hungry for a day or two. Granted, I might not taste my grandma's sour-cream-raisin pie ever again, but I was going to wait until LeBeau was in a bit of a better mood to offhandedly mention that to him.

I was kind of glad to get out of the barracks, too. Because they. Stink. If I had just walked into my brothers' room, I would have said something along the lines of "Oh, my goodness. It reeks to high Heaven in here. It smells like you have a dead, rotting moose under your bed, would it kill you to just spray some Febreze!"

But I had just climbed -_ climbed -_ up into a prison camp barracks in 1943, sixty years before I was born, and besides it looked like there might have been some sort of attempt to tidy up by its residents (which is more than I can say for my brothers) so I hadn't said anything.

"Miss Caroline?"

I jumped. Newkirk raised an eyebrow, "Good book?"

"Oh. Yeah." They had _The Picture of Dorian Gray_, which I've always wanted to read. "What is it?"

"I'm s'pposed to take your measurements. Civilian clothes." He had a measuring tape draped over his shoulder and was talking around several bobby pins. And a cigarette - the guy smokes _constantly._ A lot of them do, actually. Although I didn't mind so much, my grandpa used to smoke and it was a familiar scent.

"Oh, yeah." I flipped the book shut.

Newkirk gave me a wide berth as I followed him to his sewing room. It would have been comical if… you know… we weren't in 1943. Although I supposed he didn't feel like coming to 2019 either.

"Step up on the stool," he said. "So, what's… well… I guess we ought to make conversation."

"Yeah," I said. "Any questions burning at the back of your mind?"

He gave me an odd eye. "Maybe."

"Ask away. I'm full of answers. And questions, but none of my questions match my answers."

He rolled his eyes. "Well, I guess I'm just curious. What's it like in the future?" He slid his measuring tape from my shoulder to my wrist.

"Oh. Well, I can't tell you, like, everything, you know." I was pretty sure he knew that we would win the war. Right?

"Sure."

"Well," I frowned, "there's a lot of things, but most importantly, I guess, is the freedom," Wow, don't that sound corny, "Like, people can do what they want. Like show chickens, which sounds stupid, but I can do it if I want to. And - like, we don't have to start and end every conversation with 'Heil Hitler', and people are free to voice their own opinions. It's good." I started to shrug, but Newkirk put a hand on my shoulder.

"Hold still, miss, or my measurements are off." He shook his head, "Is it like that in England, too?"

"Oh. Yeah, I think so." I paused. "You guys still have a King and Queen and all that fancy stuff. Everyone's always following them - keeping track of them, that is. They're pretty famous. I think it's crazy, really, I mean one duke gets married or has a kid and everyone loses their heads. I think it was like a year ago - err, 2018 - one of them got married and my mom and grandma were fawning all over her dress and all that..." I paused. "Mom's got to be a wreck."

Newkirk looked up at me. "Well, she knows you can handle yourself." I think that was high praise coming from him.

I shrugged. "No, but she's - worries a lot. And even if she didn't, like, I'm her daughter. And I - I just disappeared. They had to have missed me right away, they know I wouldn't miss the show, and I mean I'm -" I waved my hands emptily. "I mean she's got to be terrified I've been kidnapped or something. And Dad and my siblings and my friends. Well, I dunno, one might still be at camp so she might not've heard but she might've figured something was up, too, she's my best friend and we talk a lot, I email her all the time even though she can't email back 'cuz' she's busy at camp, and then -"

Newkirk nudged me down from the stool and we started walking back through the tunnels.

"What if I don't get back?" I moaned. "Mom - it's just gonna ruin her. And everyone. It'll be like one of those awful drama crime shows except they never find my body because there isn't a body to find. Except by that time there _will_ be 'cuz' I'm gonna die - unless I live to be like ninety - which isn't actually impossible, I guess. You think I could live long enough to tell them? You think I did? What if my Great-Grandma Caroline is actually me but like from the past, but also the future? That wouldn't make sense. Would it? I don't want to be my own great-grandmother. I just want to be one person. I want to go home and sleep in my own bed and go back to school and talk to my friends again." My pace quickened. I pace when I get stressed. If that stupid, _stupid _watch didn't work, I would never see anybody again. I wouldn't ever play cards with my friends and poke fun at each other, or write more of the story we were all writing together, and I wouldn't ever get to go shopping with my cousins and get a giant cherry slushee and turn my tongue red, and I wouldn't ever work in the berries in the summer or go to holiday parties at the barn, and I wouldn't ever see Grandma Caroline again, unless I was lucky enough to run into her in 1943. She would be what, ten years old? No, more like five. And I wouldn't ever go on mission trips with my youth group or bug my history teacher by talking too much or _anything. _

I took a deep breath and was about to go on when Newkirk held up a hand, blocking me mid-stride.

"You're overthinkin' it."

I nodded dumbly. I wasn't going to cry. I was _not_ going to cry. I don't cry about things like this. I cry about stupid stuff. Like my sister's fish dying. Or my earbuds breaking. Or stepping in dog poop.

"Look, whatever happens, we're going to take care of you all. And that's not much of a consolation but," he shrugged, "that's all I got. So go sit down, read your chicken book or Dorian Gray or whatever, distract yourself. Carter would probably say to think of all the good things."

"That's not what you would say?"

He snorted. "I'd say to suck it up, buttercup. But I don't think that's what you want to hear."

"Sound judgement," I smiled shakily. "My mom said that alot."

"Suck it up, buttercup?"

"Uh-huh."

"So that is what you want to hear?"

I shrugged. "Not really. But… thanks, I guess. I kinda talked a lot."

He snorted again. "Cor, did you. Alright, miss, get back to the library. Shoo."


	19. Prisoner Check-In (konarciq)

**Prisoner Check-In**

**Written by konarciq**

"Holy cats!"

Totally startled, I spun around to face the source of those words. And there it was: the hole in the floor I had been looking for. (In that concrete floor?! Well, that was a surprise!) And peeping out from the tunnel underneath it were – by the looks of it – Carter and Kinch.

Before I had collected my thoughts sufficiently to say something sensible, a Carter somewhere in between flabbergastedness and annoyance demanded, "What's with all the meowing?"

I shrugged self-consciously. "Just venting frustration."

They both gave me strange looks, but Carter pressed on right away. "Who are you? And where are you from?"

"And _when_ are you from?" Kinch emphasized.

I let out a sigh. "I'm from 2019. And where are we now? From what I've seen out there, I would guess we're somewhere in the middle of world war two, right? And this is really Stalag 13?"

"Yes on both counts," Carter confirmed. "You've landed in 1943."

Another sigh.

"And if you know Stalag 13, then are we correct in guessing that you are one of the story writers for the TV show about Hogan's Heroes?" Kinch carefully inquired.

"That's right." I frown. "How did you know?"

"We have a whole bunch of them down in the tunnels," Carter said. "We only just sent back the lot we had from 2008, and now we're overrun with authors from 2019!"

"You mean there's another Mary Sue Experiment in the making?"

The two men look at each other, and then back at me. "What?"

"Well, that's what they called their story. Those authors who were here from 2008. They wrote down their adventures in a magnificent story called The Mary Sue Experiments. It was just about finished when I joined the group, so I missed out on it at the time. Always wished I could have been part of it, but to be honest, the real life version doesn't seem all that interesting so far." I looked around the cell. "Boring and frightening is more like it."

"Yeah, you got that right," Carter agreed.

"So who else is here?" I wanted to know.

"Who are _you_?" Kinch countered.

"The others know me as konarciq. Or as Margherita if I've been in closer contact with them."

Kinch's eyebrows shot up. "Margherita? Are you Italian?"

"No, I'm of Dutch origin. But no English speaker can pronounce my name properly, so online I go by the Italian version – much easier on the tongue. It was a nickname I picked up years ago in an Italian internet forum, and it kinda stuck." I hesitated. "You guys know about the internet, right?"

"A little," Carter confirmed. "So you're from Holland then? That's something new – so far, we only got people from the other side of the Atlantic!" A clear note of excitement crept into his voice.

"Actually, I'm from Sweden," I corrected. "That's where I live."

"Well, it's still this side of the Atlantic." Carter frowned. "Sweden... they are not part of the Axis powers, are they?"

Kinch shook his head. "Remember that Professor Svensson we once had here? Neutral to the bone, those Swedes."

I snorted. "Don't you believe it. They allowed the Nazis to freight their trains full of Norwegian prisoners to the ports in south Sweden to be shipped across to Germany, and they shoot at boat refugees from Denmark trying to cross the sound."

My outburst is followed by silence. Kinch and Carter looked at each other.

"So what's going to happen?" I asked at last. "Can you get me back to my own time? If I remember correctly, you guys still have the watch here, don't you?"

"Well, yeah, but there are some complications," Carter admitted. "We need to deal with that first, before we can send you all back."

"Then can you perhaps get me out of here, into the tunnels? I think I'd much rather be there than here in the cooler. Especially if you've got more authors hiding out in the tunnels."

Kinch looked a little uncomfortable. "Not yet. The Colonel wants to know first how you arrived here, and how you ended up with the Russian lady."

"I was on holiday in Hammelburg, and..."

"You what?!"

I give them a slightly embarrassed grin. "Yeah, I know. I went there _especially_ for Hogan's Heroes." I went on to tell them what happened, until I came to Marya and the general, at which point my face darkened. "She said she was going to use me in her plan, whatever that is. I really have no idea what she was talking about."

"Just trust me, darling," came an indolent voice from somewhere behind the two men below me.

The two men instantly whisked around. And I dropped to my knees to be able to look in the tunnel, too. Although there was no doubt as to who was talking...

"Ehm... ma'am..." Carter began hesitantly, courteously tipping his cap. "I don't think you're supposed to be down here."

"Of course I'm not," she agreed, casually leaning against a supporting beam. "That's why I'm here." She blew some smoke in his face.

"If I may be so bold to ask, ma'am, where did you enter the tunnels?" Kinch asked, even more hesitantly than Carter.

"In the Kommandant's quarters of course. Under the stove. Such a marvellous way to hide an entrance!" She came a little closer.

"How did you know?" Carter squeaked.

Her eyebrows shot up in languid surprise. "Don't you remember? Colonel Hogan and you and the small one entered there one evening to come and talk with me. You were all dressed up as commandos – all in black, with guns, and with a handkerchief over your face. It was so exciting! How could I possibly forget?"

"Yes, I suppose that would be hard to forget," Carter granted her. "But still, you are not supposed to be down here, ma'am. So what are you doing here?"

"I came to see my own little spy, but I see you two got to her ahead of me." Her eyes flitted from him to Kinch and then to me on the other side of the opening in the floor (or ceiling, depending on our respective points of view). "But since you're here, perhaps you gentlemen could oblige me, too. I need to speak with your charming Colonel Hogan. In private. Tell him I will need a plumber in my room at the Hauserhof Hotel tonight."

"A plumber. Yes, ma'am, I will pass on the message. Anything else?"

"And what about me?" I reminded her. "You're the one who had me put me in the cooler. Any chance of getting me out of here?"

She smiled that infuriating smile, and made a placating gesture. "Later, darling. Just trust me."

"Why should I?" I countered.

She laughed. "Because you are absolutely essential to my plan! That is..." Suddenly, she seemed to hesitate. "You are on _our_ side, no?"

I frowned. "If you mean Colonel Hogan's side – yes." Besides, it would probably be a quick recipe for suicide if I stated I would _not_ be on her side.

Immediately, her more exuberant side took over again. "Excellent! You see you can trust me? But for now, patience is the key, darling. My little Bärchen, I have no idea why, but he does not trust me. Still, at the moment he is useful, so we will just have to be very careful around him. I will deal with him properly – later."

Kinch and Carter shared a look that spoke volumes, and I heard Kinch mutter to Carter that he had better take her back to the Kommandant's quarters.

"Sure," was Carter's reply. "Ma'am, if you would be so kind as to come with me? I'll get you back up top. Visiting hours are over, and we wouldn't want you to get lost down here."

"Oh, I wouldn't get lost," Marya assured him as she took his arm after waving a (rather teasing, I thought) goodbye to me. "There are ways of ensuring that you'll always find the exit again."

As soon as they were out of sight, Kinch looked back up to me. "We will tell Colonel Hogan about what you told us, ma'am. And don't worry: if he wants you out of the cooler, he'll get you out of the cooler."

I gave him a rueful half-smile. "Thanks, Kinch. But please do tell him that any way for me to get out of the cooler will have to be through its front door. There is no way someone with my figure can squeeze through this little hole..."


	20. Organization Queen (Snooky-9093)

**Organization Queen**

**Written by Snooky-9093**

I felt uncomfortable standing there, waiting for orders—yes, I guess you can say I was thrust into a military situation. Hogan was over by a file cabinet, his hand stroking his chin. He looked lost in thought. Kinch waited nearby. Finally he cleared his throat. "Sir? You wanted to keep them busy and out of our hair?"

My throat felt ticklish. All the dirt, slime and dust I suppose. The dampness was not doing me any favors. I began to cough. It was bad enough being up in the barracks. I don't know what I expected from poorly built overcrowded huts filled with men, but I had this ridiculous notion that they somehow tried to keep them clean. It wasn't fair to criticize. I know. These poor boys didn't have enough to eat, and cleanliness seemed to be a losing battle. The barracks reeked. The men were used to the stench, but we were…well, let's just say I longed for a caseload of Lysol spray and antiseptic wipes. In a futile attempt to be useful, I had tried to dust and tidy up. This met with a chorus of resistance and a lecture by none other than the crotchety medic himself. Wilson informed us that regarding hygiene, he had dozens of barracks to inspect and hundreds of young men to lecture. It wasn't fair for us to clean only one barracks and let the rest of the camp population suffer. Besides, favoritism was unbecoming.

The coughing subsided and then I sneezed.

Hogan sighed, walked over to where I was waiting and handed me a handkerchief.

"Thank you." I sneezed again. "Sorry. It's the environment." My pant cuffs had loosened and come unraveled and I bent down to pin them up.

"We've got to get moving on those clothes," Hogan reminded Kinch. He gave me a once-over. "You said you can't sew."

"I'm craft impaired," I replied sheepishly. "Sorry."

"Oh, for goodness sake. Stop apologizing." Hogan removed his crush cap and hit it across his thigh several times. "You already reorganized the file cabinet, and alphabetized a stack of prisoner records."

Kinch offered me a brief smile and a shrug. "She did a great job, sir. The drawers aren't overstuffed anymore."

"Yeah, well there's that," Hogan grumbled.

"I make a great meatloaf," I mumbled. "Although I would have no idea how to use the stove in the barracks."

"With spam?" Hogan asked. "LeBeau would have a fit."

I shuddered. "Um, no. Ugh."

"Kinch. Let's give them a break and take them to the library. "

"Yes, sir."

"Awesome." The Rec hall. Real records. Jigsaw puzzles. Books! I was salivating at the thought of shelves of books; most likely unorganized. I was anxious to see it. Of course, I had plans to set up a catalog and check-out system.

"Sergeant, is there a library in the rec hall?"

"Yes, ma'am. But we aren't taking you there. We have a library in the tunnel system. Rescued fliers, evacuees, scientists…anyone stuck down here. Well, they can get pretty bored. So, we built a small annex. It's a bit of a mess!"

I smiled. "No worries. I can take care of that!"

* * *

The library was located in a far off section of the tunnel system. I lost my way halfway through the journey, and although I have a good sense of direction, I doubted I could find my way back to the main area. It was in a separate room, and again I marveled at the extent of the operation.

Caroline commandeered a bench and began looking at "The Picture of Dorian Gray." Abracadebra and I were eyeing the shelving and the books. But first, we had a lot to catch up on. Since our arrivals, we really had not had that much time to talk.

"Well," I said.

"Well," she replied.

Twenty minutes later, we were still jabbering, the reorganization of the books forgotten.

"I'm worried about Caroline." I couldn't help myself. I was a mother. "The people involved with this," I said quietly…"Well, it's really awful kidnapping a child."

Abracadebra nodded. "It's below the belt. And we're all worried about what's going on back home. "

Our conversation was interrupted by Newkirk.

"Oh my God." I started waving my hands and choking. "Will you stop with the cigarettes already. Don't you know they can kill you." I moved as far away from the corporal as possible. "At least not in an enclosed space. We're not used to all this secondhand smoke." I had my quiet moments, but cigarette smoke made me sick, and I was in enough trouble as it was.

Newkirk paid us no attention. He told Caroline he needed to take her measurements and left. She followed behind him.

"I guess we'll be next," I said.

Abracadebra was over in the far corner. She bent down and removed some blankets. "I found some records and a record player!"

"That's great!" I hurried over and bent down. I examined a fairly substantial stack of 78's. "Sweet. Big Band. Anyplace to plug this in?"

"No need. It's got a hand crank. Let's see if we can get this going." Abracadebra picked up the record player and placed it on the bench. I gingerly removed a record from its sleeve and placed it on the turntable. "This side is In the Mood."

Soon the sweet sounds of Glenn Miller filled the tunnel system, and a small crowd gathered outside the door. Knowing that my favorite band leader would be shot down in 1944 made me wistful, but the music did lift my spirits.

My spirits were lifted a bit too high, as I began to sing along with Chattanooga Choo Choo. At the top of my lungs.

This prompted an evacuation.

"Sorry" I yelled as I poked my head through the door of the library. "If you come back, I'll never sing again. I promise."

My lips now sealed, Abracadebra came heading down the passageway. She laughed and then apologized for fleeing in terror after hearing my off-key and out of tune performance. "Where's the group of guys," I asked her.

"They had some duties to perform," she explained.

I was about to put on another record, when Caroline returned with Newkirk. I noticed the corporal was not smoking, and I expressed my appreciation.

He grunted. "Who's next to be fitted, then?" He gave me a look.

Seeing as my pants continued to slip down and the pins in my cuffs weren't doing a good job of keeping them above my ankles, I volunteered. After all, the last thing I needed to do was trip and hurt myself.

"I'm all yours," I said.

Abracadebra gave me a small wave as I headed towards Peter's sewing room.

"You'll be happy to know that Olsen managed to procure a few pairs of civilian shoes that might fit you," he said. He passed me a small box.

"Thanks. And that's a relief." There were pairs of children's shoes in there, but my eyes widened as I gazed upon about half-dozen pairs of sensible women's shoes. They appeared small and quite worn.

"This is what German women would be wearing right now, luv. They're worn, but worn shoes would be less noticeable."

"Of course," I said. I tried on three pairs before one fit. "This one works!" I stood up and paced back and forth. "Yes, this is the pair."

"Wonderful!"

"Sad that I have to go back to 1943 to find a pair of shoes." I stepped up on a stool and waited patiently for Newkirk to take measurements.

"That sounds like you're exaggerating." Newkirk paused and jotted down some numbers.

"You don't know the half of it." I then stopped. "I'm so sorry. It's really awful of me to complain about shoes, while you're all fighting for your lives. My daughter would say, first-world problem."

"Your daughter sounds very wise."

That made my eyes fill up with tears. Newkirk blinked. He put down his tape and helped me down from his stool. "Wait a moment," he said. He rummaged around one of his shelves. "I've been saving this for a special occasion. A Brown Betty and some loose tea London sent along with an operative. How about I make you a cuppa. I only have powdered milk, though."

I was choked up. "I'd like that." Tears now streaming down my face, I couldn't help but forget protocol and give the Londoner a big hug.

* * *

Snooky's Note:….Konarciq dared me to sing in one of my chapters. So here you go!


	21. Two Powder Kegs (Tuttle4077)

Just another reminder that if anyone wants to contribute to the story, either with your own personal chapter or a hero chapter, don't be shy. Send me a PM. I don't bite, and we'd love to have you!

**Two Powder Kegs**

**Written by Tuttle4077**

"Here we are again; you and me, together, alone, and with your arms around me."

Newkirk looked up from his measuring tape and rolled his eyes at me. "I'm just doing my bloody job."

"And you're taking me out to dinner tomorrow? I don't know, Newkirk, people may start to talk," I teased with a cheeky smile.

Newkirk flashed me a wicked grin. "Especially if we stay overnight in that hotel."

My face fell. That got me. I'm a big flirt, can't help it, but I am _never_ serious about it. So when someone teases me right back like that, I get flustered because I'm not sure if they realize I'm just being a goof. Heck, I still get flustered when my _husband_ flirts with me.

"Uh, well, I- we're not actually going to stay there overnight, are we?"

"We might have to, it'll be pretty late to walk back," Newkirk said. Then he took pity on me. "Don't worry, you're safe with me. The last thing I need is some irate husband from the future coming back to knock me head off."

I let out a relieved sigh and then smirked. "Got enough irate husbands to contend with in the present, eh?"

"Boyfriends, maybe, but no husbands as far as I know. I'm not a complete louse, thank you." He almost sounded offended.

"Well as long as you're not a _complete _louse. Although I'm sure poor Mavis is having a heck of a time keeping all your girlfriends from finding out about each other."

"Mavis is a clever girl; she'll keep me in their good books." Newkirk held up his measuring tape and eyed my belly. "Blimey, this won't work. I might need to find an extra long one for you."

"Take off!" I cried.

"Only a joke, luv." Newkirk cinched the tape around my waist.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, the bearded lady from the circus. I remember. It was funny when I wasn't pregnant. Now, not so much. Besides, my figure was freaking fantastic last time I was here!" 34-24-36, thank you. Of course, it had been a couple of years since I had had those numbers- marriage, college and a couple of pregnancies could really change a girl- but that wasn't the point. The point was, Newkirk was being a jerk. "I rocked that maid outfit."

"No denying that, but we can't live in the past, can we?"

I blinked.

Newkirk suddenly stopped his measuring and blinked up at me too.

Silence.

"Really, Newkirk? Really?"

Newkirk smacked his forehead with his palm. "Bloody hell."

I suddenly laughed. "Oh my goodness, this is stupid. This is _so_ stupid! I'm 70 years in the past. I might just be stuck here. It's just so stupid."

"Don't start crying on me," Newkirk said warily.

Again, I laughed. "I won't. I'll save it for my pillow. Right now, I'll just stick with a little hysterical laughter."

"Blimey, it'll be a wonder if any of us can get through this without ending up in the asylum." He shook his head with a snort and then suddenly became serious. "Don't worry," he said sincerely, "we'll get you home. The colonel will figure it out. He always does."

"I know." Carter had already promised it would work out, but it was nice to know that Newkirk- especially Newkirk- shared his confidence.

Newkirk cleared his throat. "Hold out your arm," he ordered. I did so and he quickly measured it. "So I hear I'm not your favourite?" he said lightly.

"Aw, does that hurt your feelings?" I teased, grateful for the change in tone.

"Takes more than that to hurt my feelings. But, blimey, why Carter? The colonel I could understand. LeBeau, maybe. But passing me up for Carter? That's barmy!"

I couldn't help but laugh. "You sound pretty hurt to me! Aw, come on, Carter is adorkable!"

"Adorkable?" Newkirk repeated.

"Yeah, a dork who is adorable."

"He's a bloody pain is what he is. Always nattering on about explosions and what not."

"Don't be jealous," I tutted. "Besides, I think it would be obvious by now that you are the general favourite for everyone else."

"But _Carter_?"

I shrugged.

"I suppose they don't portray any of us right in that serial anyhow. How could they? Would take a bloody brilliant actor to come across as charming as I am."

I raised a skeptical eyebrow. "I think you and I have a different definition of charming."

"If Carter is your favourite, then there's no question on that! Right then," he swatted my hip with the back of his hand. "I'm done with you now. Off you go. Olsen's waiting to get your paperwork done. Besides, I need a fag."

He extended his hand and helped me off the stool I was standing on. "Those things'll kill you," I said, repeating the warning I had given to Carter.

"So I heard," Newkirk drawled. "But I think I'll worry more about German rifles than cigarettes for now, thank you."

He had a point. It was hard to worry about the long term effects of cigarettes when one was constantly up against armed guards, the Gestapo, and a host of other immediate dangers.

"Well thanks for refraining while I'm around." Actually, most of the boys had been pretty good about that. I wondered if maybe one of the others had laid into them after the first time someone had smoked around me. Come to think of it, it seemed everyone was trying to wrap a bit of a bubble around me. I was surprised Hogan was letting me out of the tunnels at all, let alone allowing me to leave camp and go into town.

"Well we wouldn't want to offend your delicate sensibilities now, would we? Now shoo."

"Right. Imma going, Imma going."

I heard Newkirk sigh as I left. "In for a long night, me lad."

Poor guy. He had a lot of work ahead of him in order to get me set up for tomorrow. But I was sure he had someone to help him get it all done. Either way, I hoped no one disturbed him.

But then again, he was the favourite, so I highly doubted that.

"What do you mean she was down here?" I heard Colonel Hogan say hotly. I looked down the hall to see him, Kinch, and Carter making their way towards me.

"She knew about the tunnel entrance, Colonel. You came up through it while she was in Klink's quarters one time," Kinch explained.

"Well that's great. Just great. And I don't suppose she told you what her plan was?"

"No sir. She just said she wants to talk with you in private tonight," Carter replied.

"Fine. Great." Hogan stopped when he reached me, gave me a look and then proceeded to ignore me as he tore back the curtain to Newkirk's sewing room. "Newkirk," he snapped. "Make sure my civvies are ready to go for tonight."

"I'll set them out for you, guv," Newkirk said.

Hogan let the curtain drop. Then he turned his attention to me. "Did you get measured for your clothes yet?"

"Yep," I replied. I didn't really want to engage in a conversation with him right now. He was madder than a wet hen. Not that I blamed him; Marya was annoying. I never really understood her appeal.

"Fine. Make sure you see Olsen before roll call tonight to get your papers. And make sure you and Newkirk go over a backstory." He pulled the curtain back a bit again. "Hear that, Newkirk?"

"I'll add it to the bleeding list!" came Newkirk's short reply.

Hogan grunted in frustration and brushed past me, storming down the tunnel. Kinch blew out a breath as he shared a look with Carter. Carter just shrugged.

"So... did you check up on that prisoner in the cooler? Is it one of us?" I asked.

Kinch nodded. "Says her name is konarciq. Or Margherita. Do you know her?"

"Well I don't know her know her, but I know her," I replied.

"Pen pals," Carter clarified.

"Yeah that's close enough. Is she okay?" I definitely wouldn't want to be stuck in the cooler.

Carter made a face. "I don't know. She was screeching like a cat when we got up there. I think she might be a little crazy."

"Maybe she was just bored," I speculated. Again, I wouldn't want to be alone in the cooler with nothing to do. "Any way we can get her down here?"

"Not through the tunnels," Kinch said, shaking his head.

"Why don't you go up and visit her?" Carter suggested. "It might help her keep her sanity."

"I don't know. Colonel Hogan was pretty serious about me getting my paperwork ready," I said hesitantly. I really didn't want to be on Hogan's bad side.

"It can wait," Kinch said. "The colonel is just in a mood. He'll cool off."

"Come on." Carter put a hand on my back and led me down the tunnel. "I'll take you there."

We went down several passageways, making a few turns, before we finally stopped. Carter quickly climbed up one of the ladders that were close by and pressed his ear against what was obviously the entrance to the cooler. Then, with a satisfied nod, he pushed up the cover and poked his head up.

"Meoooooooow!" I heard someone, konarciq, say from somewhere up top.

Carter looked down at me with a grimace. "I told you she was crazy!" He scrambled down the ladder and moved aside, gesturing for me to climb up. I grabbed the ladder and quickly made it to the top. The entrance was a tight fit- I wondered exactly how Kinch got his broad shoulders through there- but I managed to squeeze myself through.

Konarciq helped me to my feet. "I hear you're going crazy," I said by way of greeting.

She grinned. "Just venting frustration. But I think it'll be funny to tease Carter a bit while I'm here. Meooow!" I swear I _heard_ Carter cringe.

I smiled back. "The poor guy is just worried about you."

"If he's so worried, I hope he'll find me a way out of here. The sooner, the better. I'm konarciq by the way. But please call me Margherita."

"Tuttle," I replied. I patted my belly. "In case it wasn't obvious."

"Great to meet you in person. So who else is here?" she asked. "They said there was a whole bunch of us over again! A whole new Mary Sue Experiment!"

"Yeah, I guess it is. Hopefully we make it home to write it all down! Anyway, a couple of us are here: Abracadebra, Snooky, L.E. Wigman and Old English Game. But none of us showed up with Marya!"

Margherita rolled her eyes. "Believe me, it was not my idea. I would rather be picking berries."

I didn't quite get the reference, but I assumed it had something to do with whatever she was doing before she left.

"Is she really as-" A sound at the end of the hall caused both of us to look at the door. We could hear what I assumed were Schultz's heavy footsteps echoing down the hallway as keys rattled. "Whoops, gotta go. Talk to you later," I whispered quickly as I shimmied my way back through the entrance and down the tunnel. "Someone's coming," I told Carter.

Carter almost flew up the ladder and quickly fitted the cover that Margherita was already pushing into place. He listened for a moment before coming back down. "Schultz is taking her to Klink," he said. "I better tell the colonel. He'll want to be there." He took a couple of steps down the tunnel but then stopped. "Can you find your way back?"

"I doubt it," I said truthfully.

"All right. Stay here. I'll come back for you. But I've gotta hurry."

"Go," I said, waving him on. "I'll stay here. Woof, remember."

Carter grinned and then hurried away out of sight. I stood there, alone, making awkward popping sounds as I waited. Finally I ran out of patience and decided that I wouldn't get too lost if I just went in one direction. Besides, Carter would probably be back before I got too far.

I hadn't gotten very far when the sound of laughter made me stop. I could hear some men talking and curiously followed the noise. A curtain was pulled back to reveal what could only be "the mint". A couple of tables, covered with bottles of ink, stacks of paper, and metal plates filled the room. In the corner was another table where a group of prisoners I didn't recognize were seated, eating some sandwiches. I debated saying hello, but decided against it. I didn't know them, and I wasn't sure if they would appreciate my interruption anyway.

"I wouldn't mind a few more popping in, that's for sure!" one of them barked.

"Except the colonel is keeping them all to himself," another groused.

They must have been talking about us, I realized. We were pretty newsworthy. It was not every day a bunch of women popped into camp. Well, actually...

"I hear he's sending one of them up top. The one with the short hair."

"If she needs a place to sleep, I'll find room in my bunk!"

"She'll fit: one wide, two high!"

Well this was getting real awkward real fast.

"Maybe we can rope her into a friendly game of football. I wouldn't mind tackling her!"

"Or volleyball. It was nice to watch that other one bounce around."

"But she was a little crazy, that Iron America, don't you think?"

"Yeah, but she sure looked good coming out of the shower!"

"I think she protested a bit too much. Can't expect a man not to look when she's parading herself around like that."

"The new ones seem a little tamer."

"Pity. But it doesn't mean we can't snag a peek. They get to shower twice a week. I would _kill_ to shower that often!"

"Hey, what about that other new one? How old is she?"

"Caroline? Fifteen, I think."

"Too young," one said in dismay.

"Hell, who cares? After two years here, I'd even settle for one of the grandmas!"

"Tuttle?"

I started and looked away from the group to see Carter coming up. The prisoners in the room also heard him and looked over, catching sight of me partially in the doorway. I blushed and quickly took a small step back, out of sight.

"I thought you were going to stay put," Carter said, sounding amused. "I think you need to go to obedience school." He paused in the doorway and poked his head into the room. "Hey, Benson, have you started on those ration cards for Newkirk and Tuttle?"

"They're drying now," Benson replied. "They'll be ready in a bit."

"Good. Olsen'll meet you later to get all their paperwork done up." Carter turned to me. "Speaking of, he's waiting to get your picture. He's even using a non-soul-stealing camera, promise," he said, crossing his heart.

"What? Oh, yeah. Never mind, let's go." I briskly walked past the doorway and down the tunnel. Carter quickly caught up.

"You okay?" he asked after a few moments.

"Sure. Except those guys are... they... well, they're... not gentlemen," I said, blushing furiously, unsure of how to express my discomfort. Carter gave me a curious look. "I mean, the way they were talking about us..."

"Well you are the most interesting thing to happen to us, and that's saying something!" Carter said with a little laugh.

"It's fine to talk about us, but it's the _way_ they were talking about us," I repeated.

Carter waved his hand dismissively. "They're always talking about girls. I wouldn't worry."

"Yeah, but, what if one of them decides that- I don't know- what if... I mean, I just want all of us to be safe. And when they talk like that..."

"They're just joking. You're safe," Carter said, starting to sound a little annoyed.

I wasn't sure I believed him and I couldn't tell if he was just being naive or willfully ignorant. I trusted _him_, but there was no denying that we were a handful of women in a camp full of sex-starved men. It wasn't inconceivable that one of them would be less than honourable. And the longer we stayed, the more chance there was that at least one of those dishonourable men would take action.

"I don't know, Carter. I still don't feel very comfortable knowing they're talking about us like that."

"It's harmless. They're allowed to have their daydreams, aren't they? Besides, you're not really one to talk."

I stopped in my tracks. "What do you mean?" I asked.

"You told me yourself that you guys are writing stories about us..." He squirmed awkwardly. "About us all kissing each other. And Iron America was telling me about some of the other stories you write. Torture, injuries, sickness, death. You-" he pointed an accusatory finger at me- "blew me up! How do you think that makes us feel?! Because, I'll tell you, _that_ makes _me_ uncomfortable," he said hotly.

"But that's just make-believe!" I replied defensively. "Fiction! We're just writing about characters based on you. Characters from a stupid tv show! And whatever we write has no real world consequences for you! But those guys-"

"That's not the point!" Carter interrupted angrily. "Do you know how _real_ those things are to us? Do you have any idea? Do you know what it's really like to be tortured by the Gestapo? Or to be starved? Or to claw your way out of a cave-in? Or to watch your buddies get torn to pieces by flak? I do! You don't. To you it's just fantasy, just make believe. Something to _giggle_ about. You don't respect us and what we've been through any more than those guys respect you! So _excuse_ me if I'm less than sympathetic about you hearing something you didn't like while _eavesdropping_!"

I felt my temper rise. I'm usually a pretty amiable person, but eventually there is a powder keg at the end of that very long fuse. And the fact that Carter didn't seem to be taking our safety and the danger some of the men in camp posed seriously- equating it to a bunch of fictional stories we had written- brought me very close to that explosion.

"_You_ don't understand what it's like to be afraid of being assaulted by some-"

"The _hell_ I don't!" Carter said furiously. "Find your own damn way back!" And with that, he spun on his heel and stomped away.

I stood in stunned silence. Carter had _yelled_ at me. I had _yelled_ at him. And after all that, what had we accomplished? Nothing.

I let out a frustrated grunt and looked down the tunnel. Finally I took a deep breath and straightened up.

I _would_ find my own damn way back.


	22. The Dry-Eyed Fitting (LE Wigman)

**The Dry-Eyed Fitting**

**Written by L.E. Wigman**

The guys had been gone forever, or it felt that way at least - honestly without my phone, watch, or a digital screen of any kind, it was hard to track the time - and with Marya here... well, goodness knows whether no news was a good or bad thing.

I'm not sure things were clarified when LeBeau and Newkirk finally returned. Yes, Marya was here and as usual, had her own plan that she wasn't sharing with the rest of the class. Another author had been brought in and a CIA agent had popped in from the future; although, technically it would be our past (gosh, time travel is so confusing).

It was at that moment, Tuttle spoke up. She explained that she'd spoken to the CIA after the whole ordeal a decade ago. She offered the use of her knowledge... perhaps it was the same man as she met in 2008? Newkirk and LeBeau agreed that she should talk to the colonel and she was led away. LeBeau was still talking, answering questions and soothing worries, he'd seemed to forgotten his little blow up from earlier, but my mind was wandering. Thinking back to the reason we were all chosen.

Hogan's Heroes was the obvious connection, but why now? Tuttle had taken a break from the community and had just recently returned; could that be important? She was the only one (so far) from the original time jump and, if I remember correctly, that one was caused by sheer coincidence. So, why send her back again? Maybe someone from our future was fixing mistakes made in the past? But then why send the rest of us? And where does Mr. Straight Teeth fit in? Was he the mastermind or just a henchman?

The more I thought and tried to make bits of information fit together, the more confused I became. The picture became more distorted, instead of clearer. The only conclusion at which I'd been able to arrive was that I was missing a key element. One piece of the puzzle - the most important piece - was missing: who?

The other four Ws would probably be answered if we could figure out who the perpetrator was. Perhaps I should ask the other authors? Maybe they'd been approached or contacted in some way... Oh, and what about all those weird, anonymous reviews from last year, were they connected?

"Oi!"

My head darted up and I flushed with embarrassment. Newkirk and Tuttle had returned and I was being talked at. "Sorry," I mumbled. "What?"

He rolled his eyes, but explained. "You're off with LeBeau. He'll get you changed and ready."

"Ready for what?"

Newkirk seemed frustrated and Tuttle quickly took over explaining. "Newkirk and I are going to see General Hahn. If he is one of the guys I met from the CIA, we'll know he's on the level. You're taking Newkirk's place tomorrow for roll call."

_Me? Replace Newkirk in front of all those very real Nazis?!_ I thought, as I started to shake my head. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"You do not get a choice; Colonel's orders," LeBeau said, grabbing my elbow.

I tried to protest several times, but once again, I found myself dragged through the tunnels and its seemingly endless twists and turns. "What if someone notices that I'm a girl... I'm no Kardashian, but I'm not exactly Twiggy either."

"Schultz didn't notice the other night."

"Yeah, but we were both pretty hopped up on adrenaline." I stumbled a little and he slowed down just long enough for me to regain my footing. "What if Klink comes down to talk to Hogan? I'll be standing right there!"

"Klink does not talk to any of us. Just the _colonel_," LeBeau said hotly, pointedly emphasizing the rank. "You will be fine."

Finally, he came to a stop and pointed into what appeared to be a storage room of sorts. I took the cue and crossed the threshold. He lit a lantern with a lighter from his pocket, turning the wick up to allow more flame. On one side of the room was a clothes rack with coats hanging on it. Beside that were two wooden crates sitting on the floor. LeBeau carried the lantern to one of the boxes, setting it down as he began to rummage through the contents. Before too long, he had a full RAF uniform assembled which he handed to me.

"Try this," he said, edging toward the door. "I'll be outside, call when you're done."

He left and I set the items down. Peeling off my red T-shirt and tossing it down, I picked up the pale blue blouse. I pulled it over my head, moving carefully around my glasses, and settled it into place. It was a heavy, plush wool (not scratchy like the blankets they had provided us) and so much warmer! It was loose, the bottom fell at mid-thigh and the sleeves were also too long. The blue pants that he'd provided were another matter, as they did not get past my thighs. Embarrassed, I sighed and called him back in.

"They don't fit."

He muttered in French as he dug around some more. After another hour (I'm guessing) of digging and trying on, we finally cobbled together a suitable outfit. The blouse needed pinned, as did the tunic. The pants needed hemmed and the belt needed an extra hole made. The only thing that fit properly was the cap on my head and the boots on my feet.

Newkirk came in to finish the fitting and LeBeau headed upstairs to start supper. I chewed on my lower lip – I've been doing that a lot lately, I'll be in need of some serious chapstick when I get home. I couldn't quite explain why, but I felt ill at ease with him. Then I remembered what a ladies' man the Brit was portrayed as in the series, albeit a less successful one than Hogan.

_What's the RBI on this version_, I wondered. "Shouldn't we head back to the library?"

Newkirk's eyes darted up at me then back down to his work and a smirk spread across his face. He had that look that went right through you, like he could read your thoughts and what's more found them to be a source of great amusement.

"If it's your honour you're worried about, you've nothing to fear from me."

The heat in my face told me that my cheeks were now the color of the ripest cherries, but I shrugged it off. "Of course not," I lied indignantly. "Besides, even if I was, I wouldn't be because I know how to take care of myself."

He looked up from where he was pinning the pant cuff in place. His simple quirk of the eyebrow confirmed that I was making a fool of myself (why am I so socially awkward around handsome men with amazing accents?), but luckily for me, he didn't comment on that.

He put the straight pins in then pulled them out to readjust and put them back. I tried to think of something - _anything_ \- to say. I mean, how often do you find yourself face-to-face with real heroes?

"This is the part where you pour out your heart, tell me all your fears, and cry a little on me shoulder, innit?"

I frowned down at the top of his head. Was mocking me or baiting me? Either way, I didn't like it. "I don't cry in public," I said.

"Be a first," he muttered, finishing the other leg and then moving up to the waist. "Most of you birds can't wait to tell me about how your few weeks layover here is so bloody inconvenient."

I blinked. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Caroline and Sue had both said he was wonderful to them. He was supposed to be kind and understanding. He was supposed to tell me not to worry or that they'd be able to fix things... and, darn it, I _was_ supposed to cry on his shoulder!

"We didn't ask to be here." I was getting hotter the more I thought about it. How dare he act like our lives weren't important in the grand scheme of things. "And furthermore," I snapped, "it _**is **_bloody inconvenient. We all have people depending on us being where we're supposed to be and when we're supposed to be there. I'd think considering the situation with your mam, you'd get that!"

Have you ever done this thing in an argument where you're so angry that you think of something to say, that you suspect might hurt the other party, and you tell yourself not to say it, but then you do and you realize you've crossed so many lines that you're certain there's no repairing the damage done? Yeah, me too.

"Just what do you think you know about my mam?"

The delivery of the question was cold, but the look accompanying it was colder yet. I shrugged, "Just what is explained in the show. Lots of kids, no money. You here. Your dad not around. Actually, that last one might be more fanon than canon."

He looked away muttering under his breath about Andrew being right, then he changed the subject, saying gruffly, "Belt'll work, not unheard of for a bloke 'round here to have loose trousers."

Again I felt the burn of embarrassment, though this time shame also made an appearance as I thought of the pancake incident. I'd been so caught up in the show, in the culinary miracles LeBeau creates during every thirty minute installment that I forgot. Forgot the harsher realities that these men face, even beyond the man-made brutalities of sub-par food and ration cuts.

_How many have died?_

The question struck me like a bucket of cold water. The nameless, faceless ones who made up the rest of the camp population upon whom the show never touched... how many succumbed to the injuries from being shot down?

Then there's the tunnel excavations. Even if it was built on an old abandoned mine, how many died trying to excavate and make the tunnels safe for use?

How many died during escapes?

How many lost the battle to Typhus? Or Cholera?

I remembered the WW2 memorial in D.C., the tour guide had said the stars represented the deaths of servicemen during the war. How many was it? One hundred? A thousand? I was seriously regretting my naivety in choosing this as my favorite decade.

"Leah."

I looked up with a start. Newkirk was standing near the door, exasperated. I'd gotten lost in my own thoughts again and hadn't been paying attention. I looked down at my clothes, surprised at how quickly he'd worked. The sleeves of the blouse were pinned with safety pins - I'm sure to allow them to be let down again when I was done with it - and the tunic was pinned where it needed to be hemmed, as were the pants.

"I'll hem it," I offered, climbing down from the box. Maybe I could work at being something more than a problem that was thrown in their laps. "I know how and besides, you'll need to focus on Tuttle's clothes. I just need a needle, thread, and some scissors."

"Are you any good?" he asked that hint of disbelief was back.

"Fair-to-middling."

Newkirk nodded reluctantly. "You can take some supplies to the library and work there. After dinner..."

"Oh," I interrupted. "I can start now. I'm not very hungry anyway."

"After dinner," he repeated, ushering me out the door way. "I'll get your measurements for the traveling outfit, so you can get your needle and thread then."

I followed him back through the tunnels, trying vainly to remember the turns, but lost count before arriving back at the library. The music was swinging and a smile broke out across my face. Now I remember... this was why I loved this decade.


	23. Carter

**Carter**

He was the demolitions expert, so he should have seen the explosion coming. But for some reason, he had ignored all the dynamite piling up. Somewhere along the way the fuse had been lit. He just didn't realize how short it was until it was too late.

As Carter stormed through the tunnels, his mind went back to his outburst and tried to catalogue all the things that had led to it.

It had started out innocently enough. In fact, when Miss Jessica had shown up a few months earlier, and had explained who and what she was, Carter was excited. He had often thought that their exploits at Stalag 13 would make a good radio serial- even better than _Mary Noble, Backstage Wife_. In fact, he occasionally found himself mentally narrating his actions when he went out on missions. So it didn't surprise him that someone had used the operation at Stalag 13 as a premise for television show- which seemed to be a mix of movies and radio.

But the more he learned about it, the more he talked to the authors, the more uneasy he became. It unsettled him that these women knew them so well- or at least _thought_ they knew them so well. Some of their ideas were completely false. Absurd even. But their ideas must have come from somewhere. And it galled him that someone had taken his good name and character and had twisted it into something else, feeding it to the world as truth.

He got the distinct impression that he didn't come off very well in this television show. _You're a lot smarter in real life than on the show_,(1) Tuttle had said once. And she used even more details of his portrayal on the show when she manipulated him into taking her along to blow up a bridge. _I can see if the show got you right- you know, see if you really do trip over every rock in the forest and botch every assignment!_(2)

That had made him angry. He wasn't a proud man, but he had pride, and because of this television show, he would go down in history as the biggest dope ever to walk the earth- or to trip over it. It wasn't just insulting to him, but to the colonel as well. After all, what kind of idiot would put a man like that on his team?

No, Carter wasn't a dope, and Colonel Hogan was certainly no fool.

Of course, they weren't wrong about _everything_. Some of the authors' observations were uncomfortably astute. The fact that Tuttle's manipulation had worked- that she _knew_ it would work- meant that she did know how he ticked. It wasn't right for a complete stranger to know so much about him.

Carter's earlier conversation with Tuttle- before their argument- made it clear that these authors spent an inordinate amount of time thinking and theorizing about them. It was unnerving. He didn't know if her speculation about Newkirk was accurate (although it sounded possible) because, even though he lived with the man, there were just some things that one didn't ask. Carter respected Newkirk's privacy- if he didn't want to talk about his past then that was his business. It wasn't Carter's place to pry.

But these women had no shame. Apparently nothing was off-limits in their rampant speculations. And the way they watched him and the others made Carter feel like a bug under a microscope- vulnerable, exposed, and about to be dissected.

He supposed he should've been glad that they had the opportunity to update their perceptions, to set the record straight, but he doubted it would do any good. Judging from some of their reactions, the authors preferred their fictionalized versions. In fact, a few were downright appalled at how rude Newkirk could be. They were taken aback by how serious the colonel was. _AAAnd you don't have a twinkle! _(3) one had wailed upon meeting Colonel Hogan, as if she expected him to take the operation, the lives of his men, and the outcome of the war like a joke or a game.

And what about Kinch? They knew who he was, so he must have been in the serial, but how many had taken the time to actually talk to him? Sure, Iron America had, but the conversation had left him withdrawn and depressed. Carter could only imagine how he came across on the television show- extremely unflattering if television was anything like movies. The authors might have known _of _him, but they didn't know him at all. No wonder they ignored him- they probably didn't think he was worth their time. Kinch was a good man: smart, capable, and dignified. But because someone had taken his story and warped it for the purpose of entertainment, his legacy was probably worse than Carter's.

So it didn't matter what they observed while they were here- they would likely continue to write their stories however they wanted. They would continue to perpetuate the lies.

The mischaracterizations weren't just little trifles either. Carter was perturbed that he was thought of as a klutzy goof who couldn't do anything right, but the authors didn't just stop there. For some reason, these women felt entitled to write _anything _about them, no matter how disturbing or perverse.

Carter remembered bringing his concerns to Newkirk after Tuttle had told him about a story where he and Newkirk kissed.

_They could make up whatever they wanted, Newkirk! There's someone in the future making up lies about us! Don't you _**_care_**_? _(4)

Newkirk had just laughed. He insisted that Tuttle had just been pulling his leg. And, for a while, Carter believed him. After all, the way Tuttle had said it made it seem like she just wanted to rile him up- she liked doing that.

But then while playing mumblety peg, Iron America had told him even more about what kind of stories she had read and written about them. Tuttle hadn't been joking. And stories about grown men kissing were just the tip of the iceberg.

Torture, illness, death, starvation. These authors seemed to take great pleasure in imagining the worst possible things that could happen to them. All in an attempt to- what?- delve into their thoughts, their feelings, their _souls_? As if they had a right to take the most private aspects of a person and show it to the world for their own gratification.

It was wrong.

It was unnerving.

It was _infuriating_.

For a time, he had pushed his feelings down. Told himself that he was overreacting- that these authors didn't really mean him any harm, that they didn't know any better because, after all, they simply thought Stalag 13 was a work of fiction.

Even if he had wanted to dwell on it, there hadn't been time. There had been too much to do to get the authors back to the future, sabotage the Nazi's experiments, and keep the operation intact. And, actually, in all the hustle and bustle, he had almost forgotten his anxiety. By the time the authors were sent home, he had almost put it behind him. Pushing aside his doubts, he hoped that maybe, just maybe, they would think twice before they wrote their little stories. Maybe they would gain a little more respect for them and understand that their lives and struggles weren't theirs to do with as they pleased.

But then they came back. And after Tuttle's comments about Newkirk's past, it was crystal clear that they hadn't learned anything. They still thought it was great fun to take their names and fabricate whatever stories tickled their fancies. The authors dove into their thoughts and feelings without respecting those very things.

So when Tuttle expressed concern about the conversation she had overheard, Carter found it hard to be sympathetic. In his opinion, her objections were downright hypocritical. He had no doubt that the guys were being crude, but hadn't she thought worse things about them?

And suddenly, all his anxieties and frustrations had bubbled to the surface and came spilling out before he could stop them.

The breaking point though was her last comment. _You don't know what it's like to be afraid of being assaulted_.

Who the hell did she think they were dealing with? The Boy Scouts?!

They were constantly up against the worst that humanity had to offer. The Gestapo took great pride in their depravity. Nothing was beneath them. They could, would, and very often did inflict the worst possible tortures upon their victims, stripping them of any shred of dignity and humanity. Sometimes it wasn't even for information. Sometimes they tormented and humiliated their victims just for the fun of it.

The SS was just as bad. And he knew from experience that there were even some gung-ho Nazis in the Luftwaffe and in the civilian populations who thought nothing of abusing and torturing their enemies.

Carter had been lucky. Very, very lucky. His encounters with the Gestapo had been brief. Terrifying, but brief thanks to Colonel Hogan's quick actions. Others hadn't been so lucky. He remembered not long ago rescuing an underground agent. Three weeks in Gestapo custody had left him broken and defeated. Unable to deal with the horrors he had been subjected to, the agent had killed himself not even a day later.

More than once, Carter had woken up drenched in sweat after having nightmares about his time in Gestapo custody. Personally, he had gotten off lightly. But, oh, he would never forget some of the screams that he heard.

He knew Newkirk and LeBeau had been through some terrible things even before the operation started. More than once he had heard them cry or whimper in their sleep. It was an unspoken rule that everyone ignored it, didn't talk about it. They pretended not to hear so that Newkirk and LeBeau could keep their self-respect.

The authors had no such compassion.

Carter didn't expect a regular civilian to understand the horrors they were up against. But these authors weren't just regular civilians. They were from the future. They had to know what the Nazis were like. And, not only that, but they spent their free time studying and thinking about all the terrible things that the Gestapo were capable of in order to write their stories. Though he hadn't actually read any of the stories, he had been told outright that some involved horrific torture. So it took a lot of nerve for Tuttle to tell him that he had no idea what it was like to be afraid.

To compound his anger, Tuttle hadn't been afraid of the Gestapo. No. She had been afraid of the prisoners: the _good_ guys.

The first time she had been here, she had recklessly put herself in danger by coming with him to blow up a bridge (as much his fault as hers, he admitted). Apparently traipsing around the heart of Germany because she was bored was no big deal. But now, barely a month later, the idle chatter of a few bored and lonely men- men under the command of Colonel Hogan- made her hysterical? It was insulting.

Sure, not everyone in camp was squeaky clean. But didn't she trust them to keep her and other authors safe from anything and anyone? Hadn't they proven themselves? And, at the very least, didn't she trust Hogan to keep a tight rein on his men? For someone who spent so much time lionizing the men at Stalag 13, she didn't seem to think much of them.

Of course, now he had given her a reason to think poorly of them. He hadn't just yelled at a woman, he had yelled at a _pregnant_ woman. His mother would tan his hide if she ever found out, never mind the dressing down Colonel Hogan would give him. And whether he thought her fears were valid or not, he had left her alone in the tunnels to find her own way back when she already felt nervous about running into someone she didn't know.

Carter let out a frustrated sigh. After a rollercoaster of emotions, the anger had subsided slightly and now he fell somewhere between unsettled and disappointed.

Maybe he should go back for her. Find her, swallow his pride, and apologize. Just because she was ignorant didn't mean he had the right to be a jerk, to explode at her and leave her alone and afraid.

He debated for a moment, and was about to turn around to go look for her when he saw LeBeau running up to him. "Carter! Come on, the colonel wants us."

"What going on?" Carter asked.

"It is that new author. Klink is finished his meeting with her. "

LeBeau offered no other explanation as he turned to head back down the tunnel. Carter hesitated but then hurried to catch up.

* * *

1) The Mary Sue Experiments chapter 34

2) The MSE chapter 41

3) The MSE chapter 10

4) The MSE chapter 28


	24. The Calmest Panic Ever (CalmSheJaguar)

**The Calmest Panic Ever**

**Written by CalmSheJaguar**

It's… been a while since I've done anything Hogan's Heroes related. I haven't caught up on the fandom, I haven't watched the show, I hadn't even researched WW2. Then I got a review on an old work, and remembered the fandom. How enjoyable it was. So I decided that next time I could, I'd catch up with the fandom.

It was Tuesday, right after an insufferable day of school. I had some homework, for science. We were learning about lightning. I didn't really want to do it, so I decided to leave it in my backpack and wish it would become magically completed.

I was in Marching Band. We had practice nearly everyday. It sucks, but is also a lot of fun.

Me and the front ensemble were chilling in the auditorium, well, less 'chilling' and more of screaming at the drumline to stop messing around with our instruments. Those marimbas are several thousand dollars each and that time I found an energy drink shoved into my mallet bag was _not appreciated_ and my goodness if they mess up my mallet configuration and I use the wrong mallets one more time I'll… Wait. Get back on topic.

That day, I had a bag of grape tomatoes, earbuds, and a phone so I was ready to catch up on everything Hogan's Heroes fandom in forty minutes, or until our section head starts yelling at us to get moving.

I'm rather picky about my fanfictions. Even more so than regular novels. The Hogan's Heroes fandom has a really high average quality compared to other fandoms, so it didn't take me too long to find something to read. I'd just settled in, when my friend tapped me on the shoulders.

"I think your dad dropped this off for you," she said.

I was confused. "He didn't text me at all…"

My friend shrugged, and turned back to her homework.

The box was normal, brown and cardboard. It had… okay it had my _fanfiction _username written in sharpie. My parents don't know my username. Something was up...

Look, what I did next wasn't a smart move, but curiosity kills the cat, and jaguars _are_ a type of cat. I wanted to see what was inside. I decided to open it in private though, just in case it _was _vapes. I quickly shoved my mess into my backpack, and took the box to the uniform room. No one was inside, since we don't have to wear uniforms during practice. I opened the box.

I sighed. A lot of weird junk. Probably someone's vape box they were selling. Why would it have _my _username on it though? I did a stupid, and reached inside the box. I was promptly poked by something inside of it. And it hurt a bit, like a needle. Not enough to dissuade me. I moved over the USB drive things, and saw something that looked like it came from the _Golden Compass_. It was pretty, and didn't look like what people would buy. I, in my logical, brave, stupid mind, decided it would be a great idea to touch the strange thing.

So, I touched it.

Now might be a good time to tell you why I called myself, **Calm**SheJaguar. It's because one of my greatest strengths is my emotional control. I've never had a panic attack, or fainted. I'm not always controlled, but I don't panic.

Except, when one minute you're in school, surrounded by band uniforms in garments bags, and the next you're in a dark tunnel, it can be difficult to remain calm.

Especially when said tunnel reminded you of some old tv show you haven't watched in two years.

And there's a guy who looks like Kinchloe right there.

"What the actual…?!"

* * *

Kinchloe was creeping me out a bit. He motioned for me to follow him, with a slightly bored expression on his face. So, I followed the fictional character who is somehow right in front of me. Or maybe just his actor? I didn't know who played Kinch, it had been a while.

The tunnels were really dark and musty with cigarettes. It reminded me of the bathrooms at school.

I was pretty much numb this entire time. My brain wasn't functioning correctly. Something about '_schoolohmygoodnessneedtofinishhomeworkgirlsarecute_' and all the other fluff my brain combing with the fact I'm in a tunnel and following a boy, well, man. And then I was wondering how old Kinchloe was. Thank you brain.

We happened to pass by a room, Newkirk's sewing room I later learned, with old sewing equipment. I love sewing. I had my tote bag in my backpack from sewing class.

"Another one?" Someone asked. I looked around, I'd been so lost in my thoughts I hadn't noticed anyone. I looked up and saw…

Was that Hogan? Yes that was. He looked even more like my airplane loving friend in real life. I probably should have been panicking or screaming, but…

"Excuse me?" Probably Hogan said.

"What?" I asked dumbly.

"What's your name on that site?" Hogan asked.

"Site… wait, um, CalmSheJaguar," I finished off with a bit more confidence. You aren't going to die, I reminded myself. Hopefully…

Hope, Emily Dickinson, Language arts class in seventh grade, oh. Right. This entire thing was the subject of a fanfiction posted when I was three.

I think I was panicking, but calmly. Somehow. Wasn't there something about don't tell the future? I had a copy of _Night_ in my backpack. I needed to burn that.

"You have a bag. We'll need to search it," Hogan said.

"You can't," I said. Why did I say that, he's an adult and could kill me. I needed to fix that, "well, I mean you could but maybe like… don't?"

I failed. I could tell. I had the sudden urge to sing Hamilton. Shut up sudden urges. Did Hogan say something?

"Sorry?" I said. Hogan looked annoyed.

"You have future stuff that could change the war," Hogan stated. I vaguely remembered reading about how allied command kept the camps silent.

"Yes-s," I stuttered the end of my word. Okay, the numbness is wearing off and panic is definitely settling in.

"Of course," Hogan muttered. He said something to Kinchloe. Kinchloe motioned me to follow him. I followed Kinchloe. And promptly forgot everything. I was breathing heavily and was about to panic.

"Showers are only twice a week," Kinchloe was saying. He went on about don't complain, but who would complain. I went on a ship with no privacy for two weeks. I had one shower in that time. Twice a week is generous.

I was breathing even heavier now. And smiling a lot more. I probably looked crazy, a fourteen year old girl smiling while being escorted through a tunnel system that was probably underneath a prisoner of war camp.

And Hogan's Heroes. That was a thing.

Maybe I'm too unfocused to panic. Kinchloe had led me to a room. And, there were people there. _Scream, you're meeting famous people, _my mind suggested.

Kinchloe said another thing I didn't hear, and left me standing there.

And then I was breathing even faster.

My head was light. I needed to sit down.

So, I took off my backpack, opened it, found my blanket, folded it, set it down, and sat down on it.

Then promptly burst into uncontrollable tears.

* * *

Tuttle's Note: As you can see, it's not too late to join the madness. If you would like to be part of the Experiment, send me a PM. I don't bite.


	25. A Cordial Meeting (konarciq)

**A Cordial Meeting**

**Written by konarciq**

"Fräulein?" Schultz's hesitant face peeped through the little window in the cell door. "Are you there?"

"Of course. Where else should I be?" Gee, can you tell I've watched too much Hogan's Heroes?

Schultz let out his obligatory sigh of relief. "Good." The keys rattled in the lock, and the door swung open. "The Kommandant wants to see you."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I suppose he'll want to interrogate you."

"Hm."

Schultz let me pass, and directed me through the corridor to the exit. "Now stay with me – or do I have to hold your arm? You don't want to get into anymore trouble, believe me."

"No, I'll come with you."

The heavy door swung open, and I was greeted by delightfully fresh air. Suddenly realizing I had missed that, I took a few deep gulps of it before letting my eyes wander around the compound again.

There were quite a few prisoners out and about. And quite some guards as well.

"Come," Schultz said. Gently, he took me by the arm and led me to... no, not the Kommandantur, but another building. With a little garden around it. His private quarters?

Schultz knocked, and we heard a distinct, "Herein!" from inside.

And the next thing I knew, I was ushered into the Kommandant's quarters, with Klink coming towards me in a welcoming manner.

"Herr Kommandant, here is the prisoner from the cooler as you requested." Schultz saluted.

"Excellent. Excellent, Schultz. Thank you. You're dismissed." But until the door fell shut behind

Schultz's bulk, he just stood there staring after him, as if he wanted to stare him away. But then...

He turned to me and smiled. "Welcome to Stalag 13, my lady. I am so happy to see you!"

Um... what?!

He took my arm and led me to the couch. "Please, have a seat. Would you care for a drink? A Schnapps perhaps?"

I shook my head. "Sorry, I don't drink alcohol. But I'd love a drink. A glass of water, if you have one?"

"Of course." He disappeared into the kitchen, giving me a chance to quickly gather my wits. What was going on? What was he up to? I mean, I am well familiar with the Theatre of War story, so I'm incapable of seeing Klink as a bumbling idiot simply by default. And I do remember from the other Mary Sue Experiments that the ladies didn't exactly describe him as stupid either. So what was he up to?

And there he was again, with a glass of water and a cup of (probably Ersatz) coffee for himself.

And once he sat down and busied himself stirring his coffee, he remarked quietly, "You know, I once knew a lady from your area."

My area? "From Holland?"

"No, no." He laughed a little. "I believe she was American, although for reasons unknown, she pretended to be German. Her name... or the name with which I knew her, was Wilhelmina. Wilhelmina Brosch."

I nearly choked on a mouthful of water. "You mean Jessica?!"

He tilted his head, his features carefully brightening. "You know her then?"

"Well, no... not really." I had my wits together again. Or so I hoped. "She's an author, and I've read some of her stories. She is a very good writer. But I've never met her."

"A very good writer. Yes, that I can believe. She is an astute observer; I'm sure that would have been beneficial in her writing." He lapsed into a contemplative silence, and I hoped he wouldn't continue the topic. Although I wasn't sure I could think of a safer topic for us to discuss...

But Klink continued, "I have never met a lovelier woman. But alas, it seems it wasn't meant to be. She was from the future..." A quick glance at me. "And judging by your clothes and everything, I can only conclude that you are, too. So I thought..."

"That I could get you together with her?" I shook my head. "I'm sorry, Kommandant. I have no idea where she lives. In fact, I'm not even sure she is indeed American."

"But you know her. You said so."

"I've read her stories – that's not the same thing. I bet you don't know how to contact Theodore Hase either, do you." *

"Hm." Klink sighed. And sipped his coffee. "But can you perhaps tell me a little about her stories? I'd love to learn more about her. Anything at all."

Thank heavens we got interrupted at that moment, because the only tales I remembered from GSJessica were the infamous Mary Sue Experiments, and a brilliant little parody named The Mary Sue Reports, and I don't think either were suitable material to share with a German Kommandant of a POW camp in the middle of world war II – no matter how lovesick he may be.

But there was, as I said, the interruption: the door crashing open and a boisterous, "Hiya Kommandant! I hear you had a visitor!"

Klink and I both jumped. And there he was: Colonel Hogan, the living version.

"Hogannn!" Klink started as he got up, but Hogan totally focused on me instead.

"Hi there. You're the one who came in with the general and the Russian lady, aren't you? I hope the Kommandant has been behaving himself?"

"Um..." was all I got out, everything between 'stunned' and 'starstruck'.

"I'm Colonel Hogan, senior prisoner of war here. Welcome to our little country club. Just remember: name, rank and serial number only!"

"Hogannn!" Klink intervened. "She's not that kind of prisoner!"

"So I heard," Hogan nodded. "Was there not something about her being a spy?"

"A spy?!" What was that scheming Marya up to now?

"Don't worry – just a little one," Hogan placated me, and somehow, that tickled my funny bone and I couldn't help giggling.

"How can she be a spy when she's a time traveler?" Klink demanded. "She was just telling me about my dear Wilhelmina!"

That's when Star Trek kicked in. "Kommandant, I'm actually a member of Time Patrol. I'm here to observe an event of great importance to the development of mankind, to make sure it goes ahead as it should. You'll understand, with the war and all, there's a lot that can go awry."

Klink just gaped at me, while Hogan's eyes narrowed dangerously.

But I continued undeterred. "It is imperative that I leave this camp as soon as possible, so that I may reach the location in question at the designated time. For if things go wrong, believe me, within just a few years, life would not be worth living for mankind..."

Silence. In which I held both their eyes in a decisive, overbearing manner. (You know, being a teacher does come with some nice transferable skills...)

At last, Klink nodded dumbly. "Of course, Fräulein. You may go. I would never stand in the path of mankind." He gulped. "But please, once you get back to your time, do give my regards to my dear Wilhelmina?"

I couldn't help a smile. "I'll try."

"I'll walk her to the gate then," Hogan decided, and took me by the arm.

But, "Halt!" Klink cried. "That is not your job. Schuuuuultz!"

We heard shuffling footsteps right outside on the porch, and there was Schultz. "Jawohl, Herr Kommandant?"

"Schultz, escort this lady to the gate. She is free to go."

Schultz's eyes got the size of saucers. "To go? You mean, to escape?"

"Not escape – she's leaving. Now go, before it's too late!"

"Um... too late for what, Herr Kommandant?"

"Never mind that. Just get her out of here. Schnell!"

Schultz shrugged, and took me by the arm. "If you will follow me, Fräulein?"

Hogan followed us, too. But before he pulled shut the door of the Kommandant's quarters, we heard Klink gasp. "Oh no... how am I going to explain this to General Hahn?"

Hogan poked his head around the door again. "Maybe you could say she was kidnapped by Time Patrol?"

"Hogannn...!"

* * *

"Schultz?"

"Jawohl, Colonel Hogan?" A chocolate bar lined with a rather conspicuous banknote was held out in his direction.

"Why don't you lead the way to the gate? The lady and I will follow you."

A cunning little smirk. "Of course, Colonel Hogan." The chocolate bar disappeared in a pocket, and Schultz marched on ahead in the direction of the gate.

"Alright, quick – we don't have much time. Are you the one who was brought in by Marya and the general?"

"Yes."

"What is your relationship to them?"

I shrugged. "None really. They picked me up along the road. Marya claims that I, as a time traveller, am to play a major part in her plan. But I honestly have no idea what kind of plan she has in mind."

"So are you a spy or not?"

"I don't think so. Not that I know of. But as I said, I don't know what Marya is planning for me."

"Where are you from?"

"Native from Holland, at the moment living in Sweden."

He gave me quick look. "Occupied and neutral. So which side are you on?"

"Against the Nazis."

He nodded. "Good enough. Now listen. You're going to go out the gate, and turn left, following the track towards the town. One of my people will pick you up along the route and bring you into the tunnels with the rest of the authors. They'll ask you if you are a friend of Tuttle's. Understood?"

"Yep. But what about Marya's plan?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. First we need to get you to safety, before you mess up any more of the time space continuum, or whatever it's called. Time Patrol..." he sneered.

I grinned in reply. "I know. Too much science fiction."

"Yeah, well, this is not science fiction – this is for real. So do as you're told, and you might make it out of here alive."

I grimaced. "Yes, sir."

"Good. Schultz?" We had arrived at the gate, and at Schultz's direction, the guards there opened it a little – just enough for me to slip through.

"Safe travels!" Schultz called after me as they closed and locked the gate again.

I turned back and waved. And noticed that Colonel Hogan was already hurrying across the compound.

* * *

*Konarciq's note: _Theodore Hase is a German author, introduced to HH world by dust on the wind in the story "_It's All a Plot"_._


	26. Hogan 3

**Hogan 3**

Hogan's eyes quickly took in the occupants of Barracks 2 as soon as he came in through the door. "Olsen," he decided. "Get out the emergency exit and go to the Hammelburg Road to pick up that author who came in with Marya. Recognition code: ask her if she's a friend of Tuttle's. Bring her back here – quick and quiet! – and put her in with the rest."

"Aye, sir." Olsen jumped off his bunk, and disappeared down into the tunnels, followed by Hogan himself.

Kinch arched an eyebrow as they came half-running into the radio room, and Olsen immediately continued toward the emergency exit. "Everything okay, Colonel?"

Hogan grimaced. "Somewhat. I need to get ready to go to town and meet Marya. But we got this latest author coming in."

Kinch nodded. "Don't worry, sir. We'll handle it."

"Thanks." Hogan looked around. "Where is everyone?"

"The authors, you mean? In their assigned quarters – or so I hope."

"Good. Keep them there. But I mean the guys."

"I'm not sure. I believe Newkirk is in the sewing room, but I haven't seen LeBeau or..."

"Here I am," LeBeau completed with a grin as he came crashing into the room with Carter on his heels. "How is this new author, mon Colonel?"

"Did she meow at you, too?" Carter grinned.

"No, she had Klink eating out of her hand and convinced him she was acting on behalf of some futuristic Time Patrol agency."

"Time Patrol agency? What's that?" Carter's curiosity was instantly piqued. "Some sort of Time Police?"

"Plain science fiction gibberish. She already confessed." Hogan crossed his arms. "Olsen is bringing her in while we're speaking. I want her put in with the rest. Where is Tuttle? At least we know she knows her. Maybe she can keep her under wraps."

"Um..." Carter blushed an uncomfortable red. "Tuttle is back in the tunnels somewhere. We had a bit of a fight on our way back from the cooler."

Hogan rolled his eyes in annoyance. "Go find her then. We can't have the ladies roaming about freely down here."

Carter disappeared, and Hogan turned to LeBeau. "Make sure you put in this Margherita with the rest, and read her her rights about what she can and can't do. Then go and help Carter if he hasn't brought back Tuttle by then."

With that, he turned to the changing room and changed into his customary civilian clothes to go and pay a visit to the insufferable Marya.

* * *

Fortunately, by the time Hogan climbed out of the tunnels, dusk was beginning to set in. Still, it wouldn't do to show himself on the road too close to camp, so the first part until the bridge he snuck through the woods instead. By the time he reached the town, it was close to 8 p.m. – a perfectly logical time to go and pay a visit to someone staying at the local hotel.

As usual, once he was in town, Hogan moved about as naturally as the locals. He'd been in town so often; he knew the lay-out to the umlaut. He was probably a familiar face to many townspeople by now, as often as they had seen him walking around here. Still, no matter how laid-back his attitude seemed to be, his eyes and his mind were on full alert, for there could be trouble for him at every corner.

With a determined pace, he crossed the central town square and took the elegant stairs up to the entrance of the Hauserhof. It was the classiest hotel in town, but then again, Marya wasn't one to settle for anything less than five stars. Come to think of it, it was quite a miracle that a small town like this had a hotel of this calibre. It's not like it was some fancy spa town.

As soon as the hotel door fell shut behind him, he was bathed in the warm light of the lobby. His feet sank down into the thick red carpet as he walked over to the reception. "Guten Abend. I have an appointment with Fräulein Marya, who is staying here with General Hahn."

The receptionist nodded. "Zimmer 12, mein Herr. First floor, to the right."

"Danke." Apparently she (or Hahn) was important (or obnoxious) enough that he knew their room number by heart.

He quickly made it up the stairs, and after a brief reconnaissance of the first floor corridor, he walked down towards room 12. It was the room at the far end – probably a big one.

_Knock knock._

There was no reply. Nor a sound. He was just about to raise his hand in order to knock again, when the door was suddenly pulled open wide.

"Finally! I've been waiting for ages! That dripping faucet is driv..." She stopped mid sentence to let her cool eyes wander all over him. "You're not the plumber."

His eyebrows shot up. "Why – were you expecting a plumber?"

"I was. I specifically asked for a plumber," she pouted. But then her eyes glittered. "But never mind. I'll make do with you. Are you any good with dripping faucets?"

"I can try."

She let him pass her to go into the room (majestic, yes), making sure their bodies touched in more than one place before closing the door and turning the key in the lock.

But Hogan was having none of it. "Alright, I'm here as ordered. What do you want?"

"Not as ordered – I ordered a plumber!" Marya complained. "Now how am I going to explain your presence here when my Bärchen returns from the hotel bar?"

Hogan rolled his eyes. "So get talking – fast. What do you want?"

As usual, Marya stuck with her own line of conversation, and exclaimed all excited, "I know – I will tell him that you are a jealous ex-lover!"

"Fine. I don't care. Now what do you want?"

Marya by now had her eyes half closed, and seemed to purr like a cat. "Think how jealous he will be...! There is nothing like playing off two lovers against each other..."

Hogan let out a sigh. "Alright, I'm leaving."

Her hand shot out and grabbed him by the arm. "Why the hurry, Hogan darling? No one would believe my desperate ex-lover would leave again within a minute. He'd be absolutely devastated to see me with another man! Here – have some champagne first."

She picked up two ready-to-drink flutes with the bubbly wine from a side table and handed him one. "To the watch!"

Hogan nearly choked on his first sip. "What?"

"Drink, Hogan darling."

Instead, Hogan put down the glass with a decisive tick, suddenly afraid (and with good reason, he figured) that he was going to be sedated or something.

"What do you know about the watch?" Face it, there was no point in asking, "What watch?" – it was obvious that Marya had heard about the ladies' time travel adventure.

She took another sip and gave him a saccharine smile. "I know everything, Hogan. Everything."

"How?"

She, too, put down her glass now, and proceeded by draping herself over the red velvet sofa. "In today's world, connections are everything. That is what my father used to say – God rest his soul. And well, I happen to have some very... _knowledgeable_... connections."

Hogan heaved a sigh. "The scientists..."

"Yes." She rearranged her gown a little, to show even more of her delectable figure. But at this point, it had no effect on Hogan.

"And?"

She looked at him from under her eyelashes. "These scientists, they are so passionate about what they do! So naturally, when I met my little Knutschkugel recently, all he could talk about was..."

She paused, and let Hogan fill in the rest.

"The watch."

"Yes." For a moment, she seemed to be lost in thought, but then she picked up her tale again. "Time travel. The ability to travel to the past – and back. Think about it, Hogan: the possibilities are endless! Think of all the good we could do!"

Hogan fixated her with his glare. "Think about how badly we could mess up history. And our own time."

Marya looked up, with an edge of accusation lining her mouth. "Honestly, Hogan darling, could things really get much worse than they are right now?"

"I'm sure they can – and you know it." The H-bomb, to name but one example...

But she didn't budge. "But seeing how bad it is now, chances are far greater that a little change in the past would _improve_ things. Trust me, Hogan" – she was deadly serious now – "There are things in this war – ugly things, _horrid_ things – that not even you are aware of yet. With the watch, we can stop it before it started. We _need_ to stop it before it started."

He stared at her. Hard. "Concentration camps?" he whispered under his breath.

"Yes." She showed no surprise that indeed he did know.* "That, and more. We cannot stand aside and let it happen, Hogan. It is too wrong. With the watch, we have the chance of putting it right. So let's do it, before things get even further out of hand."

Hogan rubbed his neck. "We can't," he sighed. "The thought has come up before. But killing Hitler wouldn't solve anything. The Nazis would just put someone else in power in his place – someone a little less cuckoo, and with a little more brains. And with their organization and all, their chances of winning the war would be far greater than they are now."

"It's not Hitler." Marya let out a sigh, too. "There is something else that needs to be put right. I can do it. Just give me the watch."

Hogan regarded her in silence. She seemed genuine for a change, but... "We can't," he repeated. "We've got to send those authors back to the future. They don't belong in this time."

Marya threw up her hands in frustration and sat up. "What are a few silly authors against all of mankind?" She nailed him with her piercing blue eyes. "Trust me, Hogan, things are not going well. But give me the watch, and I can fix it."

Honestly, she'd make a pretty pair with that meowing author with her Time Patrol story, so Hogan decided to change the subject. "So how did you end up with your... _Bärchen_?"

She glared at him, and turned away.

"Do you know who he is?"

A sigh. "Yes. I know." A pause. "Do you?"

"I think I do. So... how did he get in touch with you? And why?"

"Fate, I presume." Her more mischievous side seemed to take over again. "Will you believe that he popped in on me, right out of thin air? Think about it – he may be my grandson! Of course I noticed the resemblance right away. And, well, a few glasses of my special champagne did the rest." She smiled. "The poor boy was quite annoyed when he found out. He vowed he will keep me under strict observation until his mission is completed. I am not even sure if he would be happy knowing that I am talking with you tonight either." She got up and draped herself around him. "Hogan darling, it was so good to meet him! He is such an interesting character! I'm sure you must be very proud of him."

"I'm sure I am." He tried to break free from her tight hug, but she just snuggled up closer.

"Give me the watch, Hogan," she breathed in his ear. "For the good of mankind. Just trust me – I'll make it worth your while. Any way you want. And I'll give the thing back to you afterwards, so you can send your silly little authors home, too. Just give me the watch."

He couldn't help it – his body was reacting to the close proximity of her female curves, and the heady perfume, and... Oh boy, just to...

A sudden trying of the door handle had them jump apart.

"Marya?" a male voice demanded. "What are you doing? Open up! At once!"

"Quick!" Whereas Hogan was still catching his breath, Marya had found herself immediately. "Out the window!"

"What?!" Hogan wheezed.

But she was already pulling the sheets from the king-size bed. (Hogan's eyes widened considerably when he saw that they had already been tied together in advance, with the end firmly attached to one of the bed posts.) She pushed open the window and threw the sheets down over the window sill. "Come now – quick! They shouldn't see us together!"

"Who? Why?"

She didn't answer, but as the guy on the other side of the door (Hahn?) tried the door handle again, and then started banging on the door, Hogan quickly followed her advice and hastily climbed over the window sill, and down into some dark and deserted alley he slid.

"Don't forget the watch!" she whispered urgently after him.

"Marya!" he heard the angry voice from the hotel corridor just as his feet touched the ground. But the sheets were pulled up in a flash, the windows were closed, and he was cut off from whatever was happening next up in room 12.

Well, maybe it was better that way.

* * *

See The Mary Sue Experiments, chapter 48.


	27. Early Morning Addition (Signy1)

**Early Morning Addition**

**Written by Signy1**

You know, there's just nothing in the world quite like the feeling you get when, after a long day at work, you get off the subway, nothing much on your mind beyond the vague promise of a hot dinner and a soft couch, and find yourself seventy years in the past, in a Nazi prison camp that might or might not also be located in a parallel fictional universe, with absolutely no idea how any of it happened.

At least, I sure as hell hope there's nothing like it. So do you. Trust me on that one.

Writing fanfiction is supposed to be, at worst, a slightly embarrassing hobby; the kind of thing you maybe don't mention on a first date. It's not supposed to be the kind of thing that gets you dragged bodily across time and space and thrown headfirst into mortal peril. If it is, you'd think would make you sign some sort of waiver saying that they're not liable if you happen to end up in the wrong reality. Maybe they do. I suppose it's possible that there is something like that in the terms of service, and I just didn't notice. I didn't bother reading them too closely. I mean, does anybody? Ever?

My point is that I shouldn't have had to worry about anything worse than a bad review, telling me that my plot had holes or my OC was irritating. (Or worse—no reviews at all. Now there's a sight to make a writer's blood run cold.) It's just unfortunate that the universe has never paid much attention to the way things 'should' or 'should not' be, at least not when there's the potential to do something much more interesting and much less fun. It's like we're all characters in a first draft, when even the writer isn't entirely sure where the story is heading and doesn't worry much about details like having it all make sense. Maybe we are. It makes as much sense as anything else. Or, rather, to take an example entirely at random, it makes at least as much sense as being abruptly yanked from everyday life, and suddenly finding yourself, say, seventy years in the past, locked inside a Nazi prison camp that may or may not be in a parallel fictional universe, with no idea how you got there and, more importantly, not a goddamned clue as to how to get back. Or if you can get back at all.

That might not have been an entirely random example. Apologies. I've been under a bit of stress recently.

It was a nondescript Tuesday evening, and if I'm being perfectly honest with myself, I should—oops, there's that word again—should have been paying more attention to my surroundings. But it had been a long day, and I'd just had a blinding stroke of inspiration for the next plot twist, which made exquisite sense of a throwaway detail I'd put in on a whim eight chapters ago, so I was happily imagining out the next scene of my story. I should have noticed the guy standing a bit too close, pretending to be very interested in the subway map, but the car was, as usual, pretty well jam-packed; carefully not noticing any strangers one might be wedged against is a basic social necessity around here. When it's a choice between spending ten minutes wedged into some stranger's armpit and spending ten minutes waiting for the next, equally crowded, train so that you can be wedged into a completely different stranger's armpit, there's not much to do but roll your eyes, hope for good deodorant, and shove your way onboard, studiously ignoring anyone who isn't being too handsy.

The doors hissed open at my stop, and I got off the train and walked down the platform towards the escalator. So did Mr. Map-reader, who took off with the quick, impatient stride of someone who has better places to be. I did notice the momentary twinge of pain in my arm as he brushed past me, but didn't pay it any attention. Again—probably should have.

Something shiny fell to the floor with a small clinking sound. "Hey! Hey, I think you dropped something," I called out to his rapidly retreating back.

He didn't stop. Like an idiot, I stooped to pick up whatever it was, figuring to catch up with him and hand it over—

Ever dive into a swimming pool that turns out to be a whole lot colder than you'd thought it was? That split second of full-body shock as the water closes over your head, enclosing you in icy, alien silence, the chill going through you like an electric current, leaving you breathless and stunned? Yeah, well. It was kind of like that. But not.

I picked myself up off the floor. No, not the floor. The ground. Hard-packed dirt, with a few pebbles and cigarette butts for variety. I was outside, and it was full dark, and nothing around me was the way it was supposed to be.

The walls of that station are made of shiny white tile. Except that they weren't, not anymore. The walls I saw were the weather-beaten gray-brown of unpainted wood, and they felt rough and splintery and unwelcoming. Worse still, the poster hung at just above eye level was no longer urging me to purchase a new mattress or to sign up for a food delivery service. At least, I didn't think so. It was in German, a language I don't speak, but I haven't seen too many advertisements that include the word 'Verboten' in large, angry looking letters.

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes for a moment in the forlorn hope that the subway station would magically reappear when I opened them again.

It didn't.

I took a deep, calming breath. Then another, because the first one hadn't worked too well. I looked around again. It was too dark to see much, but there was something very familiar about this place, about these grim, depressing-looking buildings, about the barbed wire fences and manned guard towers. About the 'Verboten' sign, which had a few other words—and a number—that I could comprehend.

About the red banner hanging sullenly from a flagpole on the roof of the nearest building. A flagpole with a hidden secret.

This wasn't possible. It shouldn't have been possible. One more 'should' to add to the collection.

It wasn't possible, but it was real. It was Stalag 13.

Oh, crap...

I had only the barest second to take that in before someone grabbed me from behind. Hard.

I had the sudden suspicion that I was not going to be writing any stories that evening after all, and possibly not ever again.

Sergeant Schultz, on television, looked cuddly and grandfatherish. Sergeant Schultz, in real life, was anything but. Although in his defense, some of that was due to circumstance. No one looks cuddly when they are glowering at you, with one meaty hand wrapped around your bicep and the other holding a rifle.

"Donnerwetter," he snapped. "Another one? As if I do not have enough problems already? Ach, du lieber… You are coming with me. Now! Schnell!"

I did. It seemed like the most reasonable course of action, especially given that he still had a viselike grip on my arm. I never like to argue with angry Nazis with guns.

He hauled me into one of the barracks, flipped on the light switch, and snapped, "Raus! Everybody up!"

All over the room, one by one, the men sat up to stare at the two of us, with weary irritation—but no surprise—on most of their faces. The door to Hogan's office opened, and he came into the main barracks, sleep-rumpled and cranky. "Schultz, what in hell is going on out…" That was when he caught sight of me, and his face turned to stone. I've had warmer welcomes.

Schultz glared at him. "Colonel Hogan, you go too far. I do not ask questions when I know I will not like the answers, because I do not want to know. There are times when I choose to see nothing because I do not want trouble. But I am not the only guard in the stalag, and some of them have much better eyesight!" He shoved me further into the room. "Here. Please, Colonel Hogan, either put her back wherever you found her, or put her somewhere I do not have to see her. Between that Russian woman, and the one that was in the cooler, things are bad enough already. We do not need more women prowling around the compound after lights-out."

"That's entirely a matter of opinion," said someone whose voice I didn't recognize. "More women could be just what this dump needs!"

If he was trying to get a laugh, he failed miserably. Schultz growled wordlessly. "I do not want to hear jokes! No more monkey business, Colonel Hogan, or I will have to report you! Verstehen Sie?"

"Verstanden," said Hogan, looking balefully at me. "Won't happen again, Schultz. Thanks."

"Hmph," he grunted, one hand on the door. "That is what you said the last time. And the time before that."

And he left, slamming the door shut behind him, leaving me in the middle of the room, surrounded by unsmiling POWs, with absolutely no good way to explain how and why I'd ended up in their barracks at some ungodly hour of the night. Especially since I didn't know myself. And how does one go about telling a group of strangers that they're fictional characters without sounding like a lunatic?

"Hi," I said, after a long, awful moment. Not much of an opening. But it was the best I could do.

"Don't tell me, let me guess," said Newkirk. "You're an author, aren't you?"

Interesting thing about that London accent. I'd never realized that a person could pronounce the word 'author' in such a way that it would rhyme with 'pond scum.'

"Uh… well, yes, sort of. I do like to write. Not professionally or anything," I said. How had he known that? And how was that relevant to anything?

He flopped back down on his bunk, all his worst fears obviously confirmed. Eyes turned to the heavens, he asked, "God, why me? Why always me?"

"Not just any kind of writing. You're one of those fanfiction authors, isn't that right?" Carter, on the lower bunk, took up the thread. He had the same quirk of pronunciation, even with his folksy Midwestern accent. And he pronounced 'fanfiction' to rhyme with 'reprehensible,' too. "You write stories about us, don't you?"

"I… yes, I've written a few."

That was not the correct answer, judging by the drop in the already frigid emotional temperature.

Hogan sighed. "Come on," he said, irritably resigned. "Kinch, open the tunnel, and let's get our newest guest settled in. It's going to be a long night."

"Charming," Newkirk said, his communion with the divine apparently concluded. "It's already been a long bloody day; a long night is just what I needed to go with it."

Kinch got out of bed, and slapped the hidden switch to open the tunnel door. Perhaps a bit harder than was strictly necessary. "If we get too many more writers down there, we're going to have to excavate a few new rooms to put them all in."

"Other writers?" I asked. "So I'm not the only one who just appeared here?"

"Oui," said LeBeau. "Fanfiction authors by the dozen. You will fit right in. Down you go."

That sounded slightly ominous. But on the plus side of the ledger, that meant I didn't have to explain what had happened. It might even mean that someone could explain it to me.

They led me through tunnels to a small room, obviously one that usually housed escaping flyers. Hogan gestured me towards a chair; I sat down, and he sat down across from me. The others ranged themselves around the room, casually blocking the only exit. Subtle.

"What's your name?" Hogan began.

"Call me Signy," I said. If I was here because of my writing, then I'd give them my pen name.

"Signy. Uh-huh. That's not your real name, though, is it?"

"No, but it's the only one I use online," I said. "If you're trying to verify my identity, one of the other writers might recognize that handle. No one would know my real name."

Kinch had my messenger bag, and he dumped the contents onto the table. Hogan picked up my wallet and took a good look at my driver's license, but he didn't challenge my pseudonym. I was, it seemed, officially 'Signy' for the duration.

After that, he reached for my phone, flipping expertly through the photos and contacts. I didn't argue; what would be the point of telling a spy not to look at something? There's nothing all that private on my phone anyhow, and the fact that he was so conversant with twenty-first century tech meant that the whole time-travel bit was already an open secret.

There wasn't much else in the bag. A book for my lunch break, a baggie with a handful of teabags, because my office has a communal coffeepot but leaves us tea drinkers to fend for ourselves, my keys, a nail file, two pens in case one dries up, a chapstick. The morning newspaper, opened to the page with the puzzles, but with the date emblazoned on the top margin for anyone to see. Kinch opened the front pocket, extracted a steel cylinder. "What's this?" he asked suspiciously. "A blowgun?"

"A drinking straw," I said. "You obviously think I'm a lot more interesting than I really am."

"If it helps, luv, I'm not interested at all," Newkirk informed me.

I couldn't help it; I laughed. "Good to know," I said. "I'll try to live down to your expectations."

I don't think he was quite expecting that, and it got me a wry snort that didn't sound entirely hostile, so that was already an improvement.

"Look, um… I know that you've got no reason to trust me," I continued, getting serious again.

"That's for sure," Carter mumbled.

"In your place, I wouldn't trust me, either. I know how bad this looks. Is there anything I can do to… well… prove that I'm not here to cause any trouble for you? I'll do anything you say."

Hogan shoved everything back into my bag. "As a matter of fact, there is," he said.

I sat up a bit straighter. "Thank you, sir. What should I do?"

He stood up. "Go to sleep. It's three in the morning, and I don't have time for you right now. You stay down here in the tunnels until one of us comes to get you. You don't try to leave, you stay quiet, you don't go wandering off, and you don't touch anything. Is that clear?"

I nodded. "Yes, sir. Do I stay in this room, or is there somewhere else you'd rather I go?"

"Yeah. 2019," he said dryly. "No, here's fine. In the morning we'll give you a little more of the grand tour, and introduce you to the other writers. But for now, take Schultzie's advice and stay put, capisce?"

"Capisce," I agreed, trying my best to look harmless and trustworthy.

He unbent enough to smile as he rose to leave. "Good. See you in the morning."

They filed out of the room, one by one. Kinch was last, and he hesitated a moment at the door; I hoped he wasn't having second thoughts about leaving me unsupervised.

If he was, he hid them well. He smiled at me. "Don't worry, Signy," he said. "We'll get you home safe."

The small kindness was almost too much after the events of the last hour. "Thank you, sir," I said, and smiled back at him. "I'm just sorry to be making so much trouble."

"Not your fault. And by this point, we're getting used to it," he said. "Good night."

Sitting alone in that tiny bunker underneath a prison, I was pretty sure that I was not going to have a good night. Kinch's reassurances were all well and good, but there were just too many things to worry about. I was in the wrong century. I was on the wrong continent. I was in the middle of a war. I was, quite possibly, in the wrong version of reality. No one at home knew where—or when—I was. And, it suddenly occurred to me, there was no guarantee that the versions of the Unsung Heroes I had just met bore any real resemblance to the ones I'd seen on television, let alone the ones I'd written myself. What if they weren't as trustworthy in real life as they were inside my head?

I was also a Jew in Nazi Germany.


	28. A Stroll Through Town (Wind-in-the-Sage)

**A Stroll Through Town**

**Written by Wind-in-the-Sage**

I sighed as I finally sat in the old upholstered chair in a tiny, dark room-inside-a-room in the small basement of my small university's library. I pulled my laptop out of my book bag to check the time-my sister had the phone today in case her boss needed to text her. 8:54. Getting out of class early had tacked on an extra ten minutes to my... let's see... hour and ten minutes between classes. Time to read that bit on Personal Identity and Immortality before philosophy class. I put my laptop back in my bag and selected a record from the top shelf-sadly the only shelf that wasn't empty. Leonard Bernstein Discusses Humor in Music. That sounded like fun. I loved West Side Story and could really respect this guy's music. I slid it out and removed the record to turn around and put it on the futuristic-looking turntable (which I always found an amusing oxymoron). Then I started messing with the headphones and several "on" switches I had to flip. I finally sat down, got the headphones on, and got my reading out in front of me. Then, I looked to the transformer-box-thing to mess with the volume. Next to it, on the empty shelf, was a highly interesting object.

Maybe it was because of all of the old and familiar adventure/fantasy children's books housed in the basement, or the feeling of an inside joke history had left in the little relics that still hung about in this small corner of a private university proud of its modernity, like the "watch station" consisting of a large key chained to the wall which I assumed was for winding up pocket watches at some point. Or maybe it was just that I was curious and wanted to figure out what that intriguing watch-looking thing was like before I left it for its owner to come back and fetch.

I hesitated not a moment in picking it up and started badly when there was a loud pop and I smelled smoke. _Oh no!_ I thought. _What did I do to the turntable?_ I almost managed another sentence of thought before my body caught up with my brain and let me know something else was wrong too. I was laying flat on my back feeling as if, instead of falling off the chair (How? It wasn't a small chair.), I had stood up far too quickly. I let my eyes return from the gray they were seeing and was glad I didn't have to focus on keeping upright while the blood came back to my head. I quit my embarrassed internal chuckling at myself when I felt my stomach knot up and a breeze blow by.

A breeze? Down here? My eyes focused. Trees. There were definitely no trees-

I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head, then opened them again. I breathed in the forest air. My heartrate began the climb. I was not in a building anymore. No getting around that one. I had just woken up somewhere else. I didn't think I'd fallen asleep. Did I? And who put me here? I stayed put in case someone was nearby but extended my senses and looked around.

It was night and this was a genuine forest. And... no traffic in the distance. This was not the stretch of woods at the end of my street. Or maybe I couldn't hear the highway from here at this time of night. I couldn't hear any other people and, prompted also by a stick poking into my back, I carefully sat up. The lightheadedness plagued me again, but I was patient with it. My philosophy book was still on my lap. My binoculars, ready for any inconveniently-timed bird sightings at the wildlife center later that day, were still in their case hanging from my shoulder. No watch anymore. My hat... I twisted around and picked it up off the ground, brushing some dirt off the green ribbing. Besides this, it was just me in a very cold woods. Man, this was like philosophy class had ordered up an experiment in personal identity through psychological continuity. I still felt like me even though my body was possibly disintegrated and re-structured in a new place. And my thoughts and beliefs were the same, but did I have the same soul...?

I stood all the way up, still half-crouching, reprimanding myself for being distracted. I could analyze that later, but right now, where was I? I tried to channel my twin sister's practicality and get my brain on track. The woods extended in every direction and there was no sign of a path or even any footprints in the mud and leaf litter around me. I marveled a little at how clear it was in the understory. This must be an old-growth forest. Or at least older. Or were these maples? That might give me a clue as to where I was. And now that I noticed it, this was a rather old forest with rather large trees that I couldn't identify well in the dark. I had goosebumps all over already and I rubbed my arms, glad I was at least wearing jeans and closed-toed shoes (can't go to chem lab without those). The cold made me think it was probably getting on into fall, but I could just be further north, hence the strangeness of the forest. How did I get so far without remembering it? Two options: that watch was meant to drug me (or someone else) and someone kidnapped me and left me here, or I got here myself and I suffered some sort of amnesia.

I clutched my philosophy journal, slim book, and pencil (the presence of which did not fit well into my theories) and looked around, trying to decide what to do. My plan of action if I was ever lost in the woods was to go downhill till I found a stream or river and follow that downstream till I found civilization. But-I should have thought of this, being raised a flatlander-there really wasn't a downhill.

The wind picked up again and with it came voices. Loud voices, but distant. I instantly narrowed in on the direction, my already high adrenaline spiking further. What could I do? There was no brush to hide in. I couldn't very well hide behind a tree trunk. Or maybe I actually shouldn't hide, on second thought, seeing as how I want to be found and go home. Still, I needed a safe vantage point from which to judge the situation. This was honestly scary. I had no idea why I was here and who knew about it, which opened all sorts of possibilities. I steered my mind away from thinking about this for the time being and decided to wait for an explanation. Not far away, I spotted a patch of smaller plants where a large tree had felled years ago. And that there on the edge was a climbable tree. Would it be weird if I asked assistance from up in a tree? Those brambles looked like blackberries, though. I'd take my chances with the tree.

It didn't take long to duck under the branches and make my way up the pine. Pines were always nice for climbing even if they were sticky. The voices were getting closer. They were men. They were yelling. I was worried. I remembered my binoculars and got them out in a quiet hurry, taking care not to drop them. Not only would that be a dead giveaway, I did not want to jostle those optics. They were expensive. I had the harness over my head and the binoculars at the ready, my whole body tense as I tried to pick out exactly where the sounds were coming from.

There was a gunshot and it barely echoed. I was used to hearing gunshots in a valley, but that's definitely what it was. I held my breath. Hunting group? Was this tree a safe place to be? But why were they shouting and running? I refrained from any conclusions until I heard a second gunshot and could make out someone saying "Halt!"

When movement caught my eye through the branches, I slowly brought my binoculars up, with, admittedly, much more tension than I would had I heard an extremely rare bird in my vicinity. There was a person I could just make out, and they did come to a halt. Hands up, in uniform. Uniform? No. It was too dark to determine that. In the next moment, he was out of sight, and I was glad because that meant I was out of sight when I heard a string of words in a language I couldn't understand. Cupping my ears, I listened more closely. Was that German? Who would be speaking German in America?_ No one. I'm in Germany._

I heard a different voice, possibly belonging to the man I'd seen. It was English. And not just the language, it was England-English. "You may have caught me, but you'll never get my group captain!" he said defiantly.

Group captain. That was high-ranking wasn't it? There had to be plenty of English group captains... in Germany... being chased by Germans... Nope. I couldn't accept that. There had to be another explanation. My mind made sure to tell me, _Sure, and there has to be another explanation for how you ended up in the woods._ I put that on hold. I just needed to gather more information.

There wasn't much left. With several more shouts and orders (my imagination, surely), they eventually left. Fifteen minutes after that, hearing no sign of humans anywhere near, I came down my tree. I dropped everything but the binoculars on the way. When I reached the bottom and put my few possession in the binocular case-much better-I determined to go to where that man was... captured? _Don't think yet, just observe_, I told myself.

The scene left behind consisted mostly of footprints in the dirt. If I had wanted a way to civilization, this was it. After all, I didn't know what kind of wildlife was in these woods. And if it was this cold while the rest of the country was having a heat wave, well, I could be pretty far north, and animals get bigger when you go north. I'd follow at a distance. It wouldn't be difficult. They'd left a veritable sidewalk through the woods. I'd just have to listen close and be ready to hide. It was still dark. And despite that, I wasn't tired. It had been morning for me just a few minutes ago.

My heart pounding in protest (Just stay put! Sleep in a tree! You'll be found!), I headed off after them, watching the ground closely and listening all around me. I probably needed to take some kind of action if there were people with guns out here. Something in the back of my mind asked why my plan was to follow the people with the guns, but right now I was still lightheaded and too confused to think too well. And, well, I'd just been transported magically to somewhere else, possibly in Germany, so I seemed to be operating on the principle that the normal rules didn't apply at the moment. And I was cold, so it was better to keep my blood pumping, right? Right. There were plenty of good reasons to be doing this. I was still quite hesitant.

It didn't take-or didn't seem to take-long before the brush coming up in front of me signaled the end of the woods and the beginning of, at least, a clearing. I slowed down and carefully approached it, pulling my way through brambles to peek out at a moonlit, deserted road. Oh. Now I had lost them. They'd taken a car. This is where my extremely rudimentary tracking skills failed me. A close examination of the ground near the road yielded nothing and I decided to choose a direction and follow the road, as close to the tree line as possible, maybe to hide (said my instincts), and maybe just because the trees were comforting (said my brain).

By late morning, I reached a town.

Said town came up quickly. Not too quickly, for I had slowed down and taken to the woods when more cars started passing (none of which looked like they belonged here). I was going to remain cautious until I discovered more to support or disprove the theories that had been brewing all night, which had been getting wilder the more plants, cars, and drivers I saw.

I made my way as close to the edge of town as I could while remaining in the trees, glad the two came rather close. Unfortunately, I was at the end of a dirt road lined with close, old-looking houses and no one was about. I was hoping to see people. Hmm. I didn't like it, but it seemed I would have to go into town. Of course, this took me a good ten minutes to decide. I'm really not a risk-taker, but I wasn't going to learn anything this way. And there couldn't be that many people with malicious intent toward me specifically in any old town. I tried my hardest to stay unnoticeable (starting with taking off my rather attention-grabbing green hat with that big pom-pom on top) and walked down the street, remembering that confidence was half the disguise. So I tried to straighten my back and look like I had a destination in my mind, but I wasn't sure how convincing I looked from the outside. Mostly, I was looking for signs that would tell me where I was and who I could go to for help. I soon discovered all of the few signs were in German.

As I wondered what sort of isolated, German-heritage town I could be in and which state that most probably existed in (none), I saw two men passing on the street ahead. They were in deep conversation and fast on their way somewhere-probably work judging by their dull clothes and lunch pails. They didn't seem to notice me. When I came to the corner, I looked around and saw a woman just a few buildings away who was looking at me funny. I smiled vaguely, settling on a compromise between acknowledging her unconcernedly and not having seen her at all. I forced myself to keep walking, toward what seemed to be the business district. The frequency of people increased, and I was losing my optimism in finding anything to give me a hint that I was anywhere but a really old town in Germany-I mean, the cars! Were they having a show around here? Was it just tradition along with the clothes?-when I heard footsteps behind me, quickly approaching. I whipped around and caught sight of a youthful and faintly familiar face with bright eyes and dark hair before the young man covered my mouth and pulled me between two buildings.

What was wrong with this place?! I struggled, back to "four-alarm fire," but all he did was hold me firmer against the wall and say under his breath, "You've got to be kidding me!" If anyone had drug me into a forest in Germany, this would be him. A kick in the shin garnered a curse, but not a release, and he growled tensely, "I'm on your side! You're safe! Would you just hold still?"

This was a welcome invitation for me to stop a struggle I knew was truly futile and listen instead. I was better at listening than fighting when things got dangerous. When I stopped, he stared intently at me. "Are you going to be quiet?" I nodded as well as I could. I couldn't imagine screaming in a town like this where no one would probably understand me anyway. Actually, I couldn't imagine screaming. I never was that sort either. He didn't remove his hand yet. "I'm going to take you somewhere safe so J- so the enemy can't find you, okay? You're going to have to trust me." My eyes must have communicated my doubt. What enemy? And I didn't trust anyone before I knew them. Okay, to be honest, I trusted everyone to a good extent, but I'd never gotten this sort of a greeting before in my life. "You're an author, right?" he asked, seeming harried. An author? I was a kid. Well- I guess a student now. A scientist or a philosopher if you wanted to stretch it- He saw the confusion in my eyes and looked worried himself, but only for a brief moment. "Here," he said, coming upon a solution and reaching into his pocket. "Come with me quietly or I'll shoot you." My eyebrows shot up and my eyes went wide. He did indeed have a gun. Oh, no. This didn't happen. Who was this? Why me? "Come on."

He kept his hand in his pocket and hooked his other arm around mine, then steered us both out of the alley as if we were on a stroll. I tried to keep pace-he was going incredibly quickly for a stroll-while taking in any details around me that I could. I only saw more of the same, but this time, with "the enemy" in my head, I felt uncomfortably sure that this looked like the 1930s. I didn't get beyond that. My head was starting to hurt from all of the hammering my heart was doing, and I did not have the presence of mind to make a decision as to whether I should get someone else's attention. Somehow, we ended up on a nice, quiet street and rushed up a walk to what must have been a town house. My companion, captor, acquaintance, something smoothly got the key in the door and the door open. He pushed me inside in front of him.

"Hah!" Something with great force struck me on the shoulder and I stumbled, making a short cry of surprise. I held my shoulder and backed into the room.

"Hey! Cut it out!" said Frightening Man #1.

"Wha- Oh, I'm sorry. It's you. I was prepared for the worst, of course."

"Of course," he sniggered. Sniggered? Did I hear that right?

When I looked up, I found, in addition to the man that had brought me in, a tall man with a mustache, a full-on RAF outfit, and a look of focused consternation on his face, despite the surprise and apology also there. "You brought someone else?" he questioned the younger man, who was peering out of the curtains before closing them again. Then he abandoned his questioning to turn his attention toward me.

"Ah, and who are you, young..." he looked me up and down. "lady?" Before I could process the request, he continued, "Taken in by this young chap too, I suppose? I told him I needn't any help esca-" He caught himself and looked at the boy with an eyebrow raised. "Is she, ah...?"

He was back, standing approximately between us. "Yes, sir."

"Good, but-" he looked at me again, a look of confusion on his face.

"Special disguise," my captor explained. He sounded a lot lighter and more at ease in here. That's when I stepped noncommittally toward the door. He saw my movement and put himself firmly in the way. "Look, I'm sorry for doing that earlier, but we didn't have time. I'll explain." He sighed as he heard himself. "I hope I can anyway. Hold it. First, are you an author?"

In a tiny, whisper-y voice I said, "No. No, I'm just a... normal person. I go to school. I landed here-"

"Hogan's Heroes?"

I stood back, shocked. "You know Hogan's Heroes? What does that have to do with anything?"

"You write stories about it?"

I frowned, sheepish despite the extraordinary circumstances surrounding this question. "Yes..."

He looked relieved. "Okay, well I-" He stopped and cast about the room, pointing me to an old-fashioned, floral-print sofa. "Sit down, first. We've got a bad track record with this."

My mind was already skipping ahead of him given what he'd said as I sat down in the proffered seat. I had had a feeling I wasn't in America or 2019 anymore. And this all _did_ match up with- "I'm Sergeant Olsen." And there it was. "It's real."

My first thought wasn't the fact that I'd apparently time traveled or could die or that it was impossible that Hogan's Heroes was real. No, I goggled the other man in the room, worried about how familiar he looked. "Colonel... Crittendon?" I asked.

"I'm afraid so."

"How did she know my name? You didn't tell her did you?" the colonel accused Olsen (Olsen!).

I closed my eyes hard again. Maybe, maybe, I had fallen asleep in the chair in the record room and I was just late to class and I could wake myself up.

"Don't pass out," Olsen said. "I haven't finished."

I groaned quietly and obligingly opened my eyes. "I won't."

Colonel Crittendon was studiously checking the underside of a desk- I guess for bugs?- and Olsen had pulled a chair up opposite me and against the door.

"We actually exist, all of it, and they make a TV show about it later that you know about. And you're not the first one. We have other authors back at camp, and that's where I'm going to get you as soon as it gets dark."

"Other authors?"

"Snooky, Abracadebra, Tuttle. Do those names sound familiar?"

I nodded and listened to the rest of his explanation, putting things together rapidly only because, I assume, I still classified it all under a theory, and I could formulate speculative theory without applying all of the implications to my own life. It seemed that I was in Hammelburg and had to hide in Olsen's house till night. He'd go back and alert Hogan during the day. I wasn't sure how Crittendon (who was now looking stealthily out of the curtains himself) fit into all of this, but I didn't think to ask. In no time, and with no instructions in the care and feeding of a dimwitted escape-crazed WWII air force colonel, he left.

That's when the situation really sunk in.


	29. That Scruff is Fake! (LE Wigman)

**That Scruff is Fake!**

**Written by L.E. Wigman**

LeBeau and Carter were working on getting me ready for roll call. I'd finished my pants that afternoon. True, the hidden hem stitch my mother had taught me in 6th grade didn't come back as easily as I'd hoped, but I did get it in the end. Newkirk, however, was unimpressed. I tried not to let that get to me, but it did.

I'd thought about apologizing for my presumptuous comments while he was measuring me for the travel outfit, but I found the words were - pardon the cliche - stuck in my throat. I noticed that he wasn't very chatty either. He probably had much bigger things on his mind then our spat, though. Like how to get himself and Tuttle into Hammelburg and back to camp again without issue.

"Don't move."

Carter was lightly penciling some scruff onto my chin and jawline with some kohl liner while LeBeau was combing Brylcreem into my hair. The stuff felt heavy and greasy, which made me grimace and then Carter would chastise me for moving. Wash, rinse, repeat.

I'm not sure what had gone on, but the coldness that emanated from him was very un-Carter like. He was angry or annoyed, particularly with Tuttle who was keeping mum on the subject; although, the veiled looks she had occasionally sent my way made me feel ill at ease.

"Is this going to take much longer?" I asked impatiently. The longer I sat there the more I thought about what would happen next and the more I thought about that, well... I could almost feel what little courage I had leaving me.

"You have somewhere else to be?" Newkirk countered, a playful smirk tipped the right side of his mouth up. He was on the other side of the room tying his tie into a neat knot. I noticed he looked even better in civvies. (_Stop that, Leah... just stop_.)

"I just don't see why I have to have a beard," I said sourly. I tried my best to push those other thoughts out of my mind, even if they did distract me from my anxiety.

LeBeau pulled back on my head by my hair until I was looking up at him. "Because we're only authorized to shave in the morning after roll call."

Carter pulled me back into place and began putting quick, light strokes of black kohl on my upper lip. After that was done, he'd take a slightly damp cloth and smudge the kohl, then added more pencil marks. A moment later he proclaimed his job done and handed me a wallet-sized mirror. I inspected my face carefully - it was a pretty good job, but I had my doubts about whether it would be convincing enough for the Germans. Meanwhile, LeBeau put the finishing touches on my hair and placed the flight cap on the side of my head.

"Terminé."

"Danke," I said, experimenting at deepening my voice. I noticed several grimaces from the guys. They were the extras, but being up here for the last hour or so, I learned that they all had names and weren't exactly appreciative of being referred to as 'the extras'. "Is my accent that bad?"

"Just don't speak, all right?" Baker advised.

"And don't sit like that," Addison, one of the extras, said, tipping his mug up to drain his coffee - now I don't know why they are drinking coffee after 5... er, 1700 hours, but they are.

I looked down at my legs. They weren't crossed at the ankle, as I usually do. They were just there... like normal people sit. Or at least, I think that's how normal people sit? "What's wrong with it?" I asked, my brows furrowed together in confusion.

"Men don't sit all tight like that," he said, gesturing to Kinch who was sitting on the bunk opposite the bench. "See, they sit kinda easy and spread out like."

I laughed. Not a cute, feminine sort of laugh... no, I'm not blessed with one of those. I sound more like a hinge that's been needing oiled for the last few months.

Addison drew back in offence. "What's so funny?"

Pausing my cackling, I managed to squeak out, "Your mansplaining about manspreading."

I laughed a little while longer, but no one joined in. I swallowed my laughter with a sigh, "Give it eighty years, then it'll be funny."

"Just what I like," he snorted, "a slow burner."

This drew laughs from the barracks, even LeBeau cracked a smile. With all the maturity of a two year old, I stuck my tongue out at him behind his back as he refilled his mug. He then resumed giving me 'man-lessons' until Newkirk interrupted to warn me about messing in his belongings. He knew how many tea bags were in his stash and he kept a close count on the cigarettes. Basically, 'don't touch my stuff or else'... only more British and menacing sounding.

He disappeared down the tunnel and Addison said, "one more thing..."

"I know, I know," I said, rolling my eyes. "Swift as a coursing river; force of a great typhoon; Strength of a raging fire and mysterious like the dark side of the moon... I got it."

There was a pause, then he grinned. "Another slow burner?"

"That one will only take fifty years."

Carter climbed back up from the tunnel, came over and tapped my thigh with the back of his hand, pointing to the bunk closest to the light switch. "That's you. We have a few minutes till roll call if you want to get situated."

I stood and made my way over to the bunk. The ladderless bunk. Here's something else you should know about me: I'm not an independent woman.

An independent woman would look around, assess her situation and then decide on a course of action. I'd rather ask for help, but when I turned to speak, I caught Walters making a gesture toward me while he whispered something into his buddy's ear. Now, while I may not be an independent woman, I do have a healthy amount of pride and something about Walter's attitude rubbed me the wrong way.

"Here," Addison said, creating a stirrup with his hands.

"No, thanks," I said curtly. I put my foot on the frame of Carter's bunk and tried to heft myself up with my arms. Nothing really happen, save for some rather unladylike grunting. I heard snickers behind me. I tried putting my foot on the top bunk and hefting up that way, which also did little, except pull my hamstring uncomfortably. The snickers increased to choked laughter, which I did my best to ignore; however, the pride was bruised.

I got down and studied the layout, then moved to the head of the bunk, climbed into the frame, and used the doorknob to give me enough height to wiggle myself up.

_Success_! I thought, huffing and puffing as I sat up, shifting into a cross legged sit. Suddenly there was a loud pounding on the door and a gruff bark of 'roll call'. I jumped at first then groaned. _Are you kidding me?... I just got up here_. A few of the men began pulling on their jackets, while others slipped into their boots. Kinch was the only one ready to go, so I directed my question at him.

"I thought they were supposed to come in and 'raus' us out?"

"Sometimes they do and sometimes they don't."

He stood and gestured for me to come over. I uncrossed my legs and slid down. He straightened my cap, pushing it lower as he worked causing my hair to push down over my eyes a little bit, shielding my part of my face from view. He pulled my glasses off my face.

"Hey!" I complained, "I need those to see."

He smiled and shrugged. "Talked it over with the colonel. Glasses nowadays don't look like these. You can have 'em back after roll call. Look, don't be nervous."

But I was nervous, terribly nervous. The door to the colonel's office opened behind us and I half turned; although, it was hardly useful. I squinted, making out Hogan's fuzzy (though becoming clearer) figure coming toward me. He stopped to look me over closely, gesturing for me to spin.

"You'll do," he said. "Keep your head down, though. I don't want anyone to get too good of a look at you."

As everyone began to file out, LeBeau took my elbow and guided me to Newkirk's spot in between him and the colonel. "Keep your head down," he said in a hushed tone, repeating the colonel's warning and adding one of his own, "And do not speak."

The compound is generally frightening, but not being able to see it clearly made it seem scarier. I could make out the rows of men I was in and the rows from the barracks next to us, but beyond that it was hazy. The buildings were easy to make out and movement from the guards that milled about occasionally caught my attention.

_Just how big is this place?_

The searchlight swept over me suddenly and I took a startled step back, panicking. _This isn't going to work. They're going to know._

I felt Carter's hand press into my back at the waist, trying to push me back into place, while he whispered soothingly into my ear. "Take it easy. Stay in line and let the colonel do the talking."

"I can't," I whispered back over my shoulder. "I'm gonna throw up."

"Not after eating my food, you won't!" LeBeau hissed. "Straighten up."

I allowed them to push me back into line and then stood rigidly still. So rigid, I could feel my knees lock into place. My stomach was flipping again and my breathing quickened. _In through the nose_, I coached myself. _Two, three, four. Out through the mouth, two, three, four_.

"Achtung!"

I jumped again, but managed to stay in line. _It's just Schultz, no big deal_.

"Eins, zwei, drei..."

_Take it easy. Don't be nervous. Straighten up_. I repeated their words in my head like a mantra, as I breathed deeply. I must have looked like a freak show, but that was far from my first concern... as a matter of fact, I can't say it even made it into the top ten. I kept my eyes looking downward, fixed on the toes of my boots when Schultz read off six and came to a stop in front of me.

Sieben! I willed him to say, just count me and move on. But he didn't. Was I actually hearing the time tick by, or was that just the beating of my heart? I couldn't help it. I looked up and we locked eyes.

His eyes grew wide as he waddled past me and threw quick glances at the kommandantur and the guard towers. "Oh, Colonel Hogan, you go too far!" he hissed, then exchanged that tactic for a whine. "First the general and the Russian woman, then the spy that meows like a katze, now the Englander. Please, Colonel Hogan, it would be worth my life..."

Hogan looked over his shoulder at me in a lazy way. "He's right there," he said, his voice had an amused quality to it. "Don't tell me you need new glasses?"

Schultz shuffled even closer to whisper conspiratorially. "Colonel, that is not the Englander... I am not sure that is even a man."

Hogan turned to look at me again and shrugged. "It's his uniform."

The door to the Kommandantur opened and shut with a loud bang that coupled with a bellowed,

"REPORT!"

I jumped, barely suppressing the urge to run back to the barracks. Schultz nervously muttered sieben and moved on, a moment later he came around to give the all present report. Klink stepped out into the compound, coming closer to stand by Hogan.

"Gentlemen. I'm sure you are curious about the arrivals, but let me assure you that it's none of your concern. I..." His voice trailed off and I could feel him staring. I stood straight ahead, gaze locked on the Kommandantur wall. "I will not tolerate any misbehaviors while General Hahn is here..."

Another pause, and then he leaned close to Hogan.

_This is it, I'm toast._

"Is there something wrong with that man?" I heard him ask.

"Wrong, sir?"

"Ja, doesn't he look a little... shapely?"

I flushed, but Hogan seemingly expected this, for he put a comforting hand on the kommandant's shoulder. "It's been a long time for all of us, Kommandant," he said softly.

Klink straightened and humphed before stepping closer to me, adjusting his monocle. I looked at my boots and coughed as huskily as I could into my hand. I was so focused on not being found out that I honestly didn't hear it coming. If I had, maybe I would have stepped to the side. Or maybe I could've prepared... or I don't know... anything.

But then one doesn't expect to be suddenly dropped upon, which I will tell you, is a frightening experience. I landed on the ground, my breath knocked out of me as my wrist twisted beneath the weight of my body. My head hit the earth and I finally found out what they meant by the idiom, 'seeing stars'.

"Holy smokes!"

I heard the exclamation, but it sounded fuzzy and distant, like in a dream. I was trying hard to keep my eyes open.

"HOGAN!"

"Oh, for crying out loud."

That's the last thing I remember before giving up and blacking out.


	30. Americans Germans Scots (Daily Nightly)

**Americans, Germans, Scots, Oh My!**

**Written by Daily Nightly**

I rubbed my eyes. They felt heavy, like they were still asleep. I blinked and the blurred image of the clock on the wall finally cleared enough for my brain to read the time.

6:23.

Okay, this time I was going to go out and make sure I fed Danny early. I walked clumsily down the stairs and, even in the dark, made it by habit to the door. I slipped on my boots, which were discarded on the floor where I had left them last night. My brain was moving slower than I was and I was barely conscious of my hand turning the lock and pulling open the door. I wrapped my arms around myself as I stepped out into the cool morning. I had already gotten dressed for school, but my shorts and thin denim jacket weren't enough to keep the cold air out.

The sun was still down and the rest of the world was still acting like it was the middle of the night. A cricket quieted when I stepped too close to its spot on the cold, bare ground. I walked lightly over the small bridge and stopped at the gate in front of me. The lock stuck sometimes, and I tugged at it for a minute before it clicked and the door swung open. At the qssh sound, a high pitched whinny greeted me from the barn. I smiled to myself and continued to walk across the short grass.

Danny nickered again when I walked up the two steps to get to the double doors of the barn.

"Morning, Danny."

It was so dark, I had to fumble with the lock, running my hand into the door painfully before I pushed through the doors and caught a strong whiff of hay and sawdust.

Out of the black, a strong hand grabbed my arm and tugged me to the side. I nearly fell off balance in the small space, but instead fell into the tall man behind me. In an instant, I felt my arms being pinned at my sides and his grip tightened.

"Hey...what in the…who are you?" I tried to get the questions out that were flying through my head. What was happening? I was feeling almost every emotion under the sun in my disorientation. It was all a blur. I tried to kick my legs, but my feet slipped on the floor and the man easily held me in place.

Through the dark, I saw another figure step through the door and I stopped struggling as he turned toward me and my captor. The sun had slowly been dawning and I could just make out the eyes beneath the brim of the man's hat. He was dressed in a long, gray coat. It created a very menacing effect that worked easily on my already-wired imagination. I could feel my heart pounding rapidly in my chest as the man stepped closer.

I tried again to move away from both the new man and the taller man that still had me in a firm grip.

"What's going on? Who are you? What do you want?" I probably would have kept spitting off questions if the man hadn't spoken.

"Is this our last one?"

I paused in thought, then realized he was addressing the man behind me. To my slight surprise, he did not answer in English.

"Ja." The deep voice had a strange tone that I also didn't expect.

"Good. I'm getting tired of this. Three months and we finally get the job done. This one was too slippery."

The other man only grunted in sympathy.

At the mention of me I started to panic again. My insides tightened when the man reached inside of his dark coat. All kinds of things started to pop into my mind. What's he reaching for? A gun! A warrant for my arrest? A needle to inject me with a mysterious drug?!

I nearly flipped when I felt a small nudge on my thigh. I realized it was Danny trying to tell me that it was time for her breakfast. I painfully remembered that she had no idea that this was serious or that she was supposed to be helping and not just acting normal. My attention fell back on the man when he finally pulled out black leather gloves. I wanted to kick myself for overreacting, just a little.

As he slipped the gloves on he kept thinking out loud. "You better still have it. I wouldn't want to tell the boss that we lost it. Now, was it the right or the left?"

"What do you want with me?" It burst out of my mouth and I tried to push backward as the man reached toward me. He stuck his hand into my left pocket and I suddenly realized something round had been there. When he pulled it out, I stared. How did I not realize that was there? Then I remembered that that was a very me thing to do. I never use my pockets and completely ignored them most of the time.

The sky was turning a light pink and the shadows that had been covering the man's face started to fade. He looked over my head at the other man and nodded. I nervously looked between them as the tall German, not so gently, pulled one of my arms out from behind me and held it tightly out toward the other man. He dropped what looked like a golden pocket watch into my hand and a loud pop filled my ears. Suddenly it was hard to see and I felt my stomach drop as I fell onto a slippery tin roof.

* * *

I tried gaining my balance and instantly felt gravity grabbing me and pulling me down. My limbs froze, but it was too late; I felt myself slipping quickly off the roof and falling ten feet, I estimated. I was screaming in my head. Maybe out loud, too.

I landed painfully on the ground in the middle of what seemed like a crowd of people, and then took that back. This did not feel like the ground. I lifted myself up to look down and see why the ground was so bony. Oh, oops. I instantly felt sorry when I realized that the ground was in fact a person and one who wasn't moving, either because I had pinned him down or... could I have knocked him out? He didn't seem to be very life-like at the moment.

The whole crowd packed in around us and began talking wildly all at once.

A quick succession of events began to take fold in front of my eyes. I was quickly pulled off of the poor chap that I had accidentally taken down. There were lots of men moving about in wool coats and canvas jackets, and I finally noticed how cold it really was out here. Wherever here was.

There were several men talking in loud voices only an arm's distance away. One was distinctly American and the other was, was that German? Oh, great, just what I needed. More Germans. It was easy enough to eavesdrop, even if I hadn't meant to.

"What is this? Hogan, what's going on here?"

Hogan, who was too busy adding to the commotion, didn't have time to answer this man directly. Instead, the balding German caught sight of me, in a bright tank top and denim jacket, who was clearly not dressed for fall in Germany and who was definitely not German.

"Ah, Hogan!" He shook his fist at the tall American. "I've got you this time!" he cheered, laughing.

"Guards, come here!" he said all too cheerfully. "Take this spy to the cooler at once."

Hogan finally turned around and, seeing me helplessly being picked up off the ground by two German guards, confronted their commander. "Well, now, wait a minute!"

I didn't get to hear the rest of the argument between the two before I was dragged off hurriedly across a large compound to another set of buildings.

Inside, every noise that was made was echoed all around. I didn't speak-the setting didn't permit it-but I still had questions, lots of questions.

When the door was locked behind me and the last of the clicking footsteps faded, I was left alone with my thoughts. That's never a good idea. I looked around: hard walls, big menacing door, cot-thing, and ooh, with wool sheets. I snatched the blanket from the bed, sitting down on the thin mattress and wrapping the blanket around my crossed legs.

I looked around again and my ears began to fill with the silence that was stuffing up the room. Without my knowing I started breathing faster and faster. I felt so alone, I started to feel dizzy and I wanted to cry. I knew I couldn't be anywhere near home, and my mind instantly flooded with pictures of my family. I wanted to cry so hard, but I breathed deeper, they wouldn't be proud of me if I started to panic. Eventually the burning in my eyes started to fade. Instead I decided to think.

Okay, one thing at a time. My mind was in a whirl and I needed to straighten things out before I started to panic again. First, there were big, mean guys who dropped something that had been in my pocket into my hand, then poof, I was falling and I fell onto someone. I rubbed my elbow where I had caught myself. "Okay," I breathed. There had been men dressed in uniforms, military uniforms. Green, blue, brown. There was yelling, and Hogan had been egging the whole thing on- De- wha- wait! Hogan! Hogan, I had heard it. A German with a long coat and riding crop had yelled… Oh no. I grabbed two handfuls of hair. This couldn't be happening, it-it wasn't possible, but I was just there.

Okay. Settle down. Let's say it was happening, then that means… "Woah."

Wasn't this what I had been wishing for my whole life? A great adventure with life-threatening danger, evil villains, handsome heroes, and… I reeled myself back in. Remember what Grace says. Every time period has it's danger and it is _real_ danger. I thought about war and Nazis and how real it had been-how real it was. I came to one conclusion: "Holy smackin' moley."

"Yeah. It's nae much, but it diz shock ye."

I blinked. That hadn't come from my head.

"Weel, ah coorse it's usually colder in here than th' beach vacation oot thaur."

Wow, that was thick, and Scottish. I liked Scottish. I'd never met one, but I always thought that they were good people, and I just couldn't get enough of an accent.

"Um, hello?"

"Ah, an American. Ye know, ah visited yer wee island once, when ah was only this tall..."

I stood up and followed the voice over to the small window in the door. Standing up on my tiptoes, I tried getting a better look down the hallway.

"...nasty weather, though. If you don't mind me askin', what's yer nam? No need to be uncivil just 'cause we're fighten a war, aye."

"Um," I thought hard. Should I trust this stranger, even if he was Scottish and sounded really nice? He must be trustworthy, he's a man of war, and possibly a part of Hogan's operation. "Nora. My name's Nora. What's yours?"

"Mackinnon. Pleased tae meet ye. So, how did you end up here?"

"Well, I guess the Krauts thought I was some kind of spy." I found it very relieving to finally talk to someone. I found my thoughts were too overwhelming to think on, anyway.

"Nae doubt they did. Yer definitely American and not willin' tae hide it either. Bad thing if ye want tae stay under cover."

I ignored the criticism. I'd worry about being a better spy later. For now I had questions.

"What Stalag is this?"

"Thirteen, o' course,"

"Do you know a man by the name of Hogan, perhaps?"

"Ah do."

"Oh, okay good," I breathed a sigh of relief.

"Dae ye know him?" There was skepticism in his voice, but I didn't hear it.

"Well, yes." I didn't know how much I _should_ know and didn't want to make him distrust me. After all, this was my only shot at figuring this out and hopefully making allies.

"Do you know-" I was interrupted by Mackinnon very abruptly clearing his throat.

"Nope, mah turn tae ask. Two questions fur two questions."

What? I counted the figures on my fingers. He was quick. I usually didn't make good friends with quick people; they were always the ones who could tease me and get away with it.

"Now." I switched my attention back to Mackinnon. "Mah question." He paused. "Are ye a girl?"

My eyebrows furrowed. "Yes." What kind of question was that?

As if reading my mind, he responded, "Just checking." I heard a snap and a gasp. "Ah go' it."

"What?" I suddenly became eager, like a teased dog who gets over excited about nothing and jumps around as if he's saying "What's going on? Where's the party?"

"Yer one o' the ones they've been finding. Right?"

I blinked. "Too vague."

"Um, th' ones who've been popping out o' thin air."

That sounded like me. "...yeah?…"

"Sae yer a writer?"

"I guess you could say that."

"Ya know I've always wanted tae be a writer an' seel books."

"Really? Me too!"

"But ye said ya _were_ a writer."

"Well I haven't published anything, but I've got ideas and plots and a one shot!"

"Ah consider that writin'."

"Thanks." I blushed. I loved it when people recognized my passions as important.

"Okay, my question," I winked despite the walls blocking my view of Mackinnon. I thought for a little while then began, "This may be personal," I didn't know, "but how did you become a POW?"

"Ah weel, I left my hometown and decided tae join the RAF when ah was seventeen or sae. That must have been about 1939, god it feels like sae long ago. My squadron was bombing an airfield near 'ere and ah dove down tae try and take out some AA on the grind. Weel, they ripped part o' my right wing ouf and busted the ol' tanks. Sae ah crashed in the trees right o'er the end o' the runway. Didn't take em long tae find me and take mae 'ere."

"Oh, wow. That's pretty rough."

"Weel, that's the not-sae pretty part o' it."

Our conversation continued more lightly and friendly, and we continued to play our questions game.

"What music do you like?"

"Tommy Dorsey."

"Nice, me too. Well, among other things." He couldn't exactly relate to the 60s music I listened to.

Mackinnon talked about the comings and goings of the camp on a usual day. He never mentioned Hogan or his operation. I ignored this, though. He was probably sworn to secrecy and I didn't mind getting all the other useful information.

I didn't know how long I was going to be in the cooler-_Huh?_ I briefly questioned my reality-so I decided to get comfortable, and when it began to feel like midnight, we both decided to hit the sack. I was glad of it. I had a lot to think about.


	31. Mary Poppins, Y'all (Snooky-9093)

**Mary Poppins, Y'all**

**Written by Snooky-9093**

The tunnel system was beginning to resemble the junior department dressing room in Kohl's on Black Friday. There was clothing scattered everywhere. The new arrivals-they were coming in more frequently and we were all losing track-were in desperate need of period style outfits. 21st century outfits and items were now being stored in a makeshift wardrobe area that took over the small tunnel library. (guess who was in charge of packing that up…yeah, me, myself and I.)

I was trying to take the chaos and organize the limited space…I honestly felt like a night desk clerk in Motel 6. Meanwhile, I knew Konarciq was here; but we've yet to meet in person…and this was making me super-crazy.

Hogan had been in town; we heard he was there to see Marya….the thought of her involvement was making me super-anxious. But, he wasn't talking.

And I received word from a reliable source that Crittendon was in the area. And that was making me super-curious. Could he possibly be as bad as he was in the TV show? And then I thought, remember, curiosity killed the cat.

I was by the radio, keeping Baker company, when I received orders from up top to head into the barracks. Sighing, (I preferred the safety of the tunnel system) I obeyed and hoisted myself up the ladder. I didn't feel too well, and the exertion made my chest feel a bit tight. I noticed earlier that some of the other authors were coughing.

Kinch and Carter were seated at the common room table with Hogan, while other residents did what they always did, hanging out on their bunks.

"What's up?" I asked as Kinch motioned for me to take a seat.

"Orders," Hogan replied. "You're to explain to everyone that from now on-no one is to be referred to by canon extras, extras, or the boys in the back row."

I looked around. "No one else is here."

"Well, you've been designated to drum this into everyone."

"It's habit. Sorry if I have offended anyone." I slumped into my chair and folded my arms across my chest. Unfortunately, the sleeves of my uniform, which were way too long, got in the way…so much so that I almost found myself in a do it yourself straightjacket. Carter chuckled, and then stopped as I glared. "And I'm sure everyone else is sorry." I glanced around. "Where is everyone anyway?"

Hogan ignored my question. "Order number two. We've got too many kids. You're in charge."

"Who do you think I am? Mary Poppins?"

"Hey, I remember those books." Addison hung over the edge of his bunk. "They still popular?"

"No comment," I replied.

Kinch raised his eyebrow and Hogan looked annoyed. "Get someone else to help you. Maybe another mother. Not Tuttle. One of the other ones of your…um..generation."

"You actually think they will listen to me?" I asked. I wasn't insulted. I knew we had a lot of young women here. They were scared, although sometimes they showed a lot of cheek. I had to admire them for that. But teens and adolescents often thought differently. Although the younger generation in this time period grew up faster, I did think that the teens and 20-somethings of our era were different. For good reason. They weren't in a daily life and death situation, or dealing with rationing, separation from male relatives and friends…A whole different ballgame.

I sighed. I just remembered when I arrived, the Mets had a chance to be in the race for the playoffs. I wondered how they were doing.

_***Commercial interruption: Note from the future…hahahaha! The Mets will always snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. They had a good run and then collapsed…again. The manager got fired, but we had a rookie of the year, the Cy Young award winner and an outfielder fighting for the batting title. And now back to our regularly scheduled programming…..***_

"No promises, but I will see what I can do." I looked at Hogan. The colonel was clearly under a lot of strain. So was everyone else. But I was done being mother hen to the men from this era. I had enough problems. I was still terrified. I was not used to living in primitive conditions. My idea of roughing it was a hotel room without a coffee maker. I was always cold. And I was afraid that the crowded tunnel conditions could possibly get some of us sick. And that would spread.

"Colonel. Is there any way some of us could be housed elsewhere…if it's safe, I mean. I'm really afraid you might have sick women on your hands. And that could spread." I was deathly afraid of leaving the safety of the tunnel system, but the conditions were getting so stressful, I was almost willing to venture out into the camp environment. Not the town, of course, but perhaps a barracks.

"And when will I see Konarciq." I got up and stamped my foot in exasperation. "And where the heck is everyone?"

Hogan stood up. "I'll think about your request." He ran his fingers through his hair. "Last thing we need is an epidemic."

"Thank you. I'll go back down below." The extras waved at me before I headed down. It was not long after that conversation that I found out another author had arrived, and that I was no longer the only Jewish woman in camp.


	32. No Fuss, No Muss (Tuttle4077)

**No Fuss, No Muss**

**Written by Tuttle4077**

Well... poop.

Now we had to deal with Crittendon.

Colonel Crittendon. That incompetent lover of geraniums, that master of failed escapes, that obtuse destroyer of plans. Yeah, _that_ Colonel Crittendon.

Let me tell you: no one took the news particularly well, especially the authors, who were ready to revolt at the prospect of sharing the tunnels with Crittendon.

He and another author, Wind-in-the-Sage, were holed up in Olsen's apartment. To keep Olsen's cover safe, they needed to be brought into camp. And in order to get them into camp they needed civvies. On that point Crittendon wasn't much of an issue, but Wind would need a dress. So, after our mission in town, Newkirk and I would drop in on them and Newkirk would either alter one of the dresses Jessica had left behind, or he would take measurements to make her a new one.

Newkirk and I were in for a long night.

At the moment, Leah and I were up top in the barracks getting ready for our assignments. It was nice to be above ground again. The barracks might have smelled like unwashed men, but at least it wasn't as stifling as the dank air of the tunnels. It was colder though. Wind whistled through the various cracks in the barracks' walls and frost crept up the windows. The fire burning in the little stove wasn't enough to warm the entire room. Maybe if I had been pulled into camp during the winter my Canadian hardiness would've protected me. But, as it was it had been June when I had left 2019, so I couldn't help but shiver.

Olsen was busy trying to fashion me into a woman of the 1940's. Across the room, LeBeau and Carter were attempting to turn Leah into a proper-looking prisoner of war. Both endeavours had drawn a crowd of spectators who occasionally heckled their attempts.

Olsen was unperturbed. He was actually pretty good with the makeup and hair. He had been responsible for my transformation into Mimi Renault the first time I had been at Stalag 13. I would have to remember to ask him where and why he had picked up his talents. Maybe he had sisters. Or maybe he was a hair stylist before the war. Who knew?

This time around we were going for a more subdued, mature look than the French maid I had played before: a look that would mark me as upper-class enough to be dining at the Hauserhof, but subtle enough not to draw too much attention.

"Almost done," Olsen muttered between the hairpins in his mouth.

"Now, tell me again what our cover story is," Newkirk said as he took one last look at himself in the mirror and straightened his hat.

"I'm your wife, Klara Richter," I replied. "Our home in Berlin was bombed, so we are heading to Düsseldorf to stay with your mother. But first we are staying a few days in Hammelburg to visit your cousin." I jerked my thumb back towards Olsen.

"And you're not going to speak at all because..." Newkirk prompted.

"Because the bombing left me with a terrible ringing in my ears, and I can barely hear anything else."

"Right. Think you can sell it?"

"I'll give it the old college try," I said as confidently as I could. With any luck, no one would pay much attention to us. We'd have a nice little dinner at the Hauserhof, I would identify Hahn, and after swinging by Olsen's, we would head straight home. No fuss, no muss. Newkirk could do all the talking.

"Right then," Newkirk said. "Good luck, Wigman," he said over his shoulder before coming up to me. "You ready?"

"Ask him," I said, again pointing back at Olsen.

"Just about... there. I think that'll do." Olsen said finally.

"Noice." I jumped up and made my way to the mirror to look myself over. "Hey. Not bad. You're a regular fairy godmother, Olsen," I said as I gently patted my hair. "Aw. I look so pretty." I couldn't help but squee a little at my reflection- it wasn't every day I got to dress up. I have a toddler; my usual style consists of sweatpants and a messy bun (and not even an intentional messy bun that takes hours to craft and actually looks good).

"Enough preening," Newkirk scolded, handing me a heavy wool jacket to put on. "We've got to be off if we want to make it to the Hauserhof by seven."

"Right." I put on the coat and took a step away from the mirror, but craned my neck to keep my face in the reflection. I tilted my head from side to side, just to get another good look before I pulled myself away. Olsen handed me a purse which I slung over my shoulder. Then he grabbed my left wrist and shook it a little.

"Fork in this hand," he instructed. Then he grabbed my other wrist. "Knife in this. No switching back and forth."

I wriggled myself loose. "I know. I always eat that way. When I was a kid we used to visit my grandparents during the-"

"You also always eat like a heathen!" LeBeau huffed loudly, cutting me off. "Remember, you are supposed to be a lady!"

"I do _not_ eat like a heathen!" I fumed indignantly.

"Really Tuttle? I've seen you eat. Someone is liable to lose a hand around you," Olsen said with a hint of amusement.

"I eat _fast! _It's not like I have my mouth open and I'm flobbing food all over the place. And in my defense-"

"Just try to be civilized," Olsen interrupted.

"Fine. Sure. I'll eat like a lady. I can manage that." No one was interested in my stories or excuses.

"She can't do any worse than Newkirk," Goldman mocked whispered to Garlotti, earning a few chuckles.

"Let's be off then," Newkirk said, ignoring the jab as he opened the bunk entrance. The prisoners wished us luck and we set off.

We managed to clear the tunnels and get into the woods without any trouble. We hurried through the forest for several minutes, keeping as low to the ground as possible. It wasn't yet six o'clock, but the sun was already starting to set, leaving us little light to work with, but I did my best to keep up with Newkirk. Not that he was giving me much of a choice but to keep up. He had a death grip on my arm. In fact, he was practically dragging me along. I would've protested the treatment if it hadn't been such a dangerous situation.

Finally we came to a stop. Newkirk straightened and brushed himself off. I copied him and took a steadying breath. "We're all right now. Still have to be careful, but there shouldn't be too many patrol around here," Newkirk said quietly.

"Can we take the road?" I asked.

Newkirk shook his head. "We're not dressed for travelling; might look suspicious if someone stops us. We'll stick to the trees as long as we can." I sighed. I didn't like the idea of tramping through the forest in these heels- not that they were very high, but still, not exactly made for hiking. "Mind your dress not to catch it on anything."

"Yeah, sure. No problem. How long will it take us to get into town?"

"About an hour with you in tow," Newkirk said. He furrowed his brow. "You'll be all right, yeah?" he said with a hint of worry.

"I'm tough," I assured him. "I actually like to hike. Not usually in the dark in the heart of Nazi Germany, and never in heels, but you know, I've been known to hike up a mountain or two in my time. Even while pregnant."

Newkirk regarded me for a moment then nodded. "Right then, follow me." He offered his hand. I took it and together we began to carefully pick our way through the brush, going as fast as we could. Every once in a while, we would hear a noise and Newkirk would stop and pull me down a bit, but it always turned out to be nothing more than a critter in the trees. Better to be safe than sorry, I suppose. Still, I was never one to be comfortable in silence, so I ventured to start a conversation, albeit a quiet one.

"So... Newkirk... do you like... cheese?"

Newkirk stopped short. After a moment's pause, he looked back at me, obviously confused. "W-what?"

"You know... cheese. Do you like it?"

"I... what?"

I shook my head. "Movie quote. Never mind."

"You are an odd one," Newkirk said, but I caught a hint of a smile.

"I suppose we're all a bit strange to you."

At that Newkirk shrugged and continued to walk. I stayed silent for a bit, watching him whenever I thought the ground was clear enough for me to take my eyes off it. I couldn't help but imagine what his internal dialogue sounded like. If this were a story, I would probably have him marvelling at how ludicrous this situation was. How dangerous. He'd be wondering how on earth he got stuck with this job and how he was going to pull it off without us ending up in a Gestapo cell.

"Talking to yourself?" Newkirk suddenly asked.

"What?"

Newkirk looked over his shoulder and grinned. "You keep moving your hand like you're having a bit of a conversation with yourself."

"Oh. Ha. Yeah," I said, feeling my cheeks burn. See, I'm one of those people who has to move her hands while she talks, even if I'm just talking in my own head. Must be the French in me: the old joke is that if you want a Frenchman to be quiet, hold his hands.

"I was just thinking about what you must be thinking about," I admitted. At that, Newkirk grunted noncommittally, obviously unwilling to share. Maybe because he didn't want to worry me with the less than cheery thoughts he was having about this mission.

"You know, it's funny," I continued, "you'd think it'd be easy for us to have an actual conversation. I mean, know we've bantered back and forth, but that doesn't count."

"How do you figure?"

"Well, we do have some things in common. We both have a million siblings; we both grew up poor in rough neighbourhoods. Although, I suspect that our definitions of 'poor' and 'rough' are vastly different. I mean, there was always food on the table and I never had to resort to stealing. Which, come to think of it, I don't know if any of that's true about you anyway. For all I know, you're a duke in disguise."

"I'm no duke," Newkirk snorted in amusement.

"Yeah, I didn't think so, but anything is possible, I suppose. The show didn't give us much information on you guys. Anything you said about your civilian lives were either said to the Germans, or as some sort of excuse to get out of assignments, which means any and all of it could have been lies. Most of what we know about you is really just theories we've come up with."

"Seems like a waste of time to be speculating about us," Newkirk said.

"Yeah, I guess," I mumbled, remembering my conversation with Carter and hoping that this didn't go down the same path. Not that there would be shouting. Heck, we were taking a risk just whispering as we were. That being said, I had no doubt that Newkirk would've shut me up if he thought it was too dangerous to talk.

We fell into silence again for a good distance until Newkirk suddenly spoke up. "I've got nine brothers and sisters."

"Seven for me," I replied. "My Borg designation is three of eight."

"Borg designation?" Newkirk said, probably regretting he had started the conversation again.

"The Borg: evil hive mind of the universe that wants to assimilate everyone and everything into their collective." I knew he was lost, but offered one more point of explanation. "Star Trek. Never mind. It just means I'm the third oldest. As a side note, I have a friend who is actually seven of nine. Buuut that means nothing to you either. You know, maybe we _don't_ actually have a lot in common."

"Blimey," was all he could say.

"Soooo... ten kids, eh?"

"Too damn many if you ask me," Newkirk grumbled. "Couldn't afford to feed half of 'em,"

"And just which one would you get rid of?" I asked.

Newkirk sighed. "None of 'em. Although Charlie _is_ a bit of a pain."

"Yeah, little brothers; they're the worst. Of course, older sister aren't a picnic either. Ugh. You got any older sisters?"

Newkirk shook his head. "I'm the oldest."

"Well, I wouldn't recommend them. Of course, _I'm _an older sister." I furrowed my brow and then shrugged. "Ah heck, I'm a peach. An absolute delight. Who wouldn't want me as a big sister?"

Newkirk just heaved a long-suffering sigh and shook his head. He was probably rolling his eyes too, but I couldn't see. "Hush now," he said, "we're almost to the edge of the forest."

I obediently kept quiet, and sure enough, the forest was thinning. Within moments we had run out of trees and were on the cusp of an embankment. Newkirk slid down and carefully helped me join him. I followed his lead as we hurried along the side of the road. The town of Hammelburg laid ahead, seemingly quiet and dark but for a few lit street lights. Good. Maybe no one would notice us.

The streets were deserted until we found ourselves closer to the main square where a few people were milling about. I suddenly became very nervous. How was I supposed to act? Did I look around? Keep my eyes on the ground? What if I made eye contact with someone? Did I smile? Look away? Stare? Blink profusely? Oh gosh, how do normal humans interact with each other? I had forgotten. I'd been stuck in those tunnels for too long.

Actually, to tell the truth, I always think it's awkward to be walking in a crowd. Is that a Millennial thing? It seems millennials all have social anxiety. Too much time on our phones, I guess.

Newkirk pulled me back into reality as he dropped my hand and instead looped my arm through his, and pulled me close. I let out my breath, not realizing I had been holding it, and instinctively snuggled close to him. He'd protect me. He'd make sure nothing bad happened.

Newkirk nodded towards a very grand looking building at the other side of the square. I hadn't had a chance to see the Hauserhof the first time I had been in Hammeburg. Somehow it seemed out of place in such a little town. It had a big courtyard and an ornate fountain, turned off either for the season of the duration of the war, added a sense of grandeur to the place. Under normal circumstances, Newkirk and I would probably be turned away before we got within a hundred feet of the front door. But tonight we were Newkirk and Tuttle- we were Karla and Franz Richter, well-to-do elites, albeit ones in an unfortunate situation.

That thought drew me out of my shell and I stood a little taller, adopting a haughty sort of expression. A doorman greeted us and ushered us in.

The lobby was spacious and elegant, although I saw signs of wear and tear: chipping paint, a tear in the rug, faded patches on the furniture. I guess it was hard to maintain standards during a war.

Newkirk led me down a hall to the in-house restaurant. He spoke with the maître-d quietly and shook his hand. The host slyly slipped a hand in his breast pocket and then with a smile and a nod to me, led us to a table in the back corner. Newkirk must've slipped him some money to get us this table. From there we were mostly hidden from the rest of the dining room, but we could see the door and everyone who used it. We would see Hahn for sure.

I started unbuttoning my coat, and nearly jumped when the host put his hands on my shoulder to help me out of it. Right. Fancy place. Of course he would take my coat. I knew it was little things like that which could blow a cover and felt myself blush. Did I thank him? Ignore him? I didn't know. We should have gone over this in more detail instead of chatting about stupid things on our way.

The man didn't seem to notice- or maybe Newkirk had paid him not to notice- and pulled out my chair for me. I quickly sat and Newkirk shooed the man away with a few words.

Newkirk sat beside me and grabbed my hand. "Steady," he murmured.

I nodded quickly and looked down at my hand in his. I kept my focus there, relying on Newkirk to let me know when Hahn entered.

We didn't talk and after a few minutes I dared to look away from our hands and observe the room. I promptly wished I hadn't. I'm no expert, but I had a terrible feeling that across the room there was a group of Gestapo agents eating. I desperately hoped they were there for pleasure and not business. I saw that Newkirk had noticed them as well, but if he was worried, he didn't show it.

Somewhere, a clocked chimed the hour. Sure enough a man entered the dining room and Newkirk subtly jerked his chin towards him.

It had been ten years, and he was wearing a German uniform, but I never forget a face. It was him. The CIA agent I had met all those years ago after our first adventure in the past. Agent Hogan. I sagged in relief and nodded to Newkirk.

I was a little less relieved when Marya strolled in like she owned the place. Even though we were already mostly hidden from view, Newkirk turned his face from her. If she did notice him, there was no guarantee she wouldn't make some sort of scene.

Fortunately, she seemed more focused on Hahn than us, although I noticed she was making eyes at the Gestapo men. I hope she wouldn't do something to blow Hahn's cover.

No. Marya was crazy, she played her own game, but she was one of the good guys. I hoped.

I very much wanted to leave right then, but that would've been suspicious, so we stayed for dinner. The food was... well... there was a war on, and there's only so much you could do with potatoes and... was this rabbit? I guess I was lucky to be getting any meat at all, but you would think a five star hotel could whip up something better than a lone Frenchman could in a POW camp. Newkirk enjoyed it, but then, isn't everything better than British food? All right, the Brits get a point for fish and chips, but other than that, I haven't heard good things.

When we finally left the hotel, I let out a long breath. We had done it. We had identified Hahn with no fuss and no muss. Now we had to go see Crittendon and Wind.

And, wouldn't you know it that was the most dangerous part of the night.


	33. Tunnel Vision (Abracadebra)

**Tunnel Vision**

**Written by Abracadebra**

Who could say how many days we'd been down here? With no natural daylight, the old Circadian rhythms were pretty messed up. Not that mine are exactly normal to begin with. I work into the wee hours as a usual matter. But no daylight for days on end was starting to fray my nerves.

The stale air of the tunnels smelled like cavemen in desperate need of a shower, and I'm pretty sure deodorant wasn't a thing in 1943. I had a flashback—or technically, I guess, a flash forward—to a trip to Prague in 1992, when I was riding on a crammed subway. It was August, dozens of Czech strap-hangers had their arms straight up in the air and it was lethal in there. A lot like here.

I couldn't help but think it must have been tough when they had visitors down here, especially when it was a crowd. Then I started thinking about that early episode — what was it? Oh, yeah, Flight of the Valkyrie — where Baroness Lili von Schlechter wanders out of the tunnels and up to Hogan's office because she was getting claustrophobic down there and needed fresh air. I always her liked her, but that little scene used to bother me until I was down here. Now I could see why she went on her ramble.

I'm pretty sure the Baroness got a kiss out of Hogan after that little stunt. I'm equally sure I'd get a dirty look and a reprimand if I tried it.

Anyway, I guess I must have dozed off for a while because one minute Sue and I were down here, yapping like we do, and the next thing I saw her out of the corner of my eye, climbing the ladder into the barracks.

I'm not much of rules follower under the best of circumstances, but I do have a healthy self-preservation streak. And as much as I want to climb that ladder and peek around the barracks, I worry that would be exact moment that one of worst guards or a big meanie like Hochstetter would show up. And hiding would probably not be my forte, since I am no longer petite or nimble.

Still, though. We're running out of things to do down here. Sue and I could talk forever, apparently, but we've been shushed a few times by Kinch because he couldn't hear the radio over our yammering. We've drunk a lot of tea, which is the one nice thing Newkirk has done for us in between scowling about all the authors and flirting with the younger women. He makes an excellent cup of tea, and somehow even scrounged up cream and sugar for us. Probably stolen right from under Klink's nose.

We listened to records, cleaned up after the men, and took lots of notes for our future stories. We organized the camp library using our rather impressive command (if we do say so ourselves) of the Dewey Decimal System. And when Newkirk wasn't looking, we did a little tidying up in his sewing and wardrobe room.

We also straightened up Kinch's radio room, and created a keyword system for all their notes as a cross-reference to their chronological files. I think Sue might be the only person I know with whom I could have a lively conversation about information management, or what we used to call library science, although I suspect that if Carter lived in our day and age, he'd be right in there with us, talking taxonomy and content management.

I know, I'm ridiculously boring. Believe me, my kids roll their eyes at me in a style worthy of Newkirk.

Anyway, back to Carter. The only place we didn't touch was Carter's lab. It's possible Sue has the guts for that, but I don't. I mean, I got a C in high school chemistry because I was freaked out after my lab partner, who had already spilled hydrochloric acid once, went on to cause an explosion that briefly turned the air in the classroom yellow. So yeah, no thanks.

So like I said, one minute I was having a nice conversation, and the next thing I knew I was flopped across a high-top table, snoozing because I was now oblivious to day, night, and manners. As I woke up, I shook off the cobwebs, looked up the ladder, heard the distant sound of conversation, recognized a female voice amid the baritones, and thought, she went up there. Well, dang, color me impressed.

Then I thought, why am I holding back? I don't need to await orders. I can go up there and see for myself what's what. I'm a journalist, dammit. I've barged into lots of places where I was not welcome. I've made a pest of myself for a _living_. I've asked intrusive questions and gotten candid answers. And my powers of observation are going to wither and turn to dust down here.

So screw it. I'm. Going. Up. That. Ladder.


	34. Life Bird (Wind-in-the-Sage)

**Life Bird**

**Written by Wind-in-the-Sage**

I sat unmoving in my seat in the quaint living room of Olsen's quaint house, hoping, perhaps, that if I was quiet enough Crittendon wouldn't notice me and I wouldn't have to try to manage him. I'd seen the shows. What? No, I hadn't. Well, I had, but for all I knew this guy could be nothing like his portrayal in the show. Assuming, of course, this Was All Real. I slumped in on myself. The colonel was busy checking the perimeter, it seemed, looking under the door at the moment. While Olsen was gone, alerting Hogan of the situation and promising to come back to smuggle us in under cover of darkness, I would be grateful if Crittendon could entertain himself. I needed some time to think. It seemed, for some reason, a bunch of Hogan's Heroes authors from 2019 were being sent back to 1943. Now they were all collecting at the Stalag and I had to get there ASAP because as long as I was able to be captured-I shivered-I was a security risk. This told me that at least a good portion of the show was accurate and I resolved to do what I was told because it was certainly better than messing with a sophisticated operation. I snuck another glance at the colonel. If any of the show was true, that wouldn't be his plan.

I let those thoughts churn. They didn't get far, stumbling back into themselves after going in a circle, but suddenly, maybe because I was feeling so alone, my little sister popped into my head. I had been worried about her this morning. As she was getting ready to go out the door and join the carpool, we'd lost track of her. We thought she must have gotten out without any of us noticing, but when we called the father of the other family who was driving that day, he'd said he thought she was going separately with our dad. Mom was going to find her just as I left. She had to be somewhere close. It actually had been worrying me this morning, but, geez, I saw her two hours ago.

Alright, so, truth be told, I had tried not to react and just go on with my day because I was sure there was an explanation, but Nora really was missing. And if there were other people here, also authors... Well, she wasn't an author, exactly. I mean, she never published. My other sister was the author. But, if Nora were here... Oh, she would get herself into worlds of trouble.

Not to mention the fact that we were in Nazi Germany.

Colonel Crittendon interrupted my thoughts with a decisive "I have a plan." I looked at him to find him standing rigidly straight (this did indeed seem a similarity between the real person and the actor) with a look of cunning determination on his face. Something about it, though, I couldn't take seriously. Was it the accent? The mustache?

"A plan?"

"Of course. I assumed that's what you were doing sitting there, but if not, well," he turned his nose up a bit. "I'll share first."

Did I just disappoint someone by failing to think of escaping from-presumably-someone on my side? Our side?

"An escape plan?"

"Of course! You don't think I'm going to spend the entirety of the war in Germany, do you?"

I flinched at the mention of the war as if it were a very real and present thing, but continued, "I thought you were with allies. Olsen and- and Hogan said they'd help you escape. Won't they?"

"Oh, pish posh." He flipped his hand at my assumption dismissively, accidentally flipping his scarf as well. It was definitely 50-50 as to whether it was the mustache or the accent. "The duty of every prisoner of war is to escape. These fellows will only slow me down, you see, and, well-" He raised a conspiratorial eyebrow in my direction. "You haven't seen his operation." I shook my head in agreement. "Well, I'll just say, it's not something I want to be associated with, however the war comes to an end." I frowned in confusion, prompting elaboration. "Geneva Convention and all, what?" Oh, that's right. He made a good point. "So, my proposal is to find civilian clothes, if not here then off a clothesline, and walk right out of town. Stealing a car would be too suspicious and as long as we aren't seen, we can take as much time as we need to get to the border."

"We?"

He stopped his pacing and leaned against the desk. "Yes. It's wrong to leave a lady belonging to an Allied country with the enemy, don't you agree?"

"Well-"

"It's not a question. I will help you escape. Together, we can make it to London, then you can go back to the Colonies and I can rejoin my squadron blasting Jerries out of the sky!" He ended with a proud fist in the air. At least he was enthusiastic.

"Hold on. I can't just go."

He turned a suspicious gaze on me, as if suddenly doubting my loyalty. "Do you have something to do here?"

"No, I mean- Well, as crazy as this sounds, I think my sister might be here, and besides-" I stopped myself, trying hard to rephrase this sans time travel as Olsen had instructed. "It would take a very long time to find my family in the States. I want to look around here and find my sister." And, if the fact of several other author appearances in Stalag 13 was anything to go by... "I think she's at Stalag 13."

"Oh. Yes, I see." He held one elbow so that he could rest his chin on a fist, apparently needing to channel "The Thinker" to think. "Can't leave your sister, now can you?" he muttered. I could admit, it was quite a conundrum. Especially for me. Colonel Crittendon could be caught and returned to a prisoner of war camp (as safe as that was), but I didn't have any explanation for being here, no papers, and no German-language skills. Sounded to me like a job for the Gestapo. I gulped.

"Well. It's worth the risk," Crittendon determined.

"What's worth the risk?"

"I will take you to Stalag 13 myself. I know the way. Are you ready?"

"Ready?" I squawked.

"Yes."

"Well- Olsen's going to take us tonight-"

"Speed is of the essence, my dear! One learns that up in the air, flying through heavy flak, the enemy below you, above you, your crew at your back..."

Thanks to Crittendon's unwitting help, it occurred to me that I didn't know when Nora may have appeared. She could already be at the Stalag. She could be arriving momentarily and I'd have to be there. She could be in the cooler. Or turned over to the Gestapo, or- Calm down. She may not have arrived, but if she has, everyone else has gotten safely into the tunnels. I may want to get to her, but the risk of trying to go to the Stalag in the day... without Olsen... with Crittendon... Much too high. I was no use caught by the Gestapo.

"...and at full throttle you climb straight up and up into the sky-" *

"Okay!" I interrupted. This stopped him and he looked ready to march out the front door with all of the courage of a lion.

"Jolly good!"

"No, no, wait." I snatched his sleeve, wondering if that was out of line in military protocol. We'd leave alright, but I was not leaving now. "We have to be prepared first, though," I said.

He paused and deliberated with himself. "Ah. Come to think of it, you're right. We must plan these things! We must discover where the enemy are located and store up provisions and find a map!" He had given himself all of the tasks I was about to give him to keep him occupied. I couldn't have asked for a better distraction.

I helped him to find a map, then pretended to start pulling together food. With that, he was on his way, finding the best windows for surveillance, and running about the house, looking for clothes and a spyglass and weapons. I kept an eye on him, but only got a small amount of bread for myself, then poured over the map of the Hammelburg area, occasionally looking out the window to orient myself. No good reason not to know the area. In fact, that was about the only useful thing I could do here. I discovered that Stalag 13 was connected to the same road I'd been following all night, but in the other direction, and with some careful measuring using a scale that was unfortunately in kilometers, I got an approximation for how far it was from here and how close I was when I appeared. Pretty close.

I heard a crash upstairs, followed by a string of bouncing syllables which was probably Crittendon laughing at his clumsiness, and cringed. Hopefully the neighbors hadn't heard that. Another reason to do some surveillance myself. I got up and looked out of the window. There, right in front of me, was a European Robin. I caught my breath, afraid it would see me and fly away. How exciting was this? A life bird!** Not one that I could record, given that I hadn't been born yet and that would look awfully weird on the records, but it was a wonderful excitement for me. I had my binoculars and I was in Europe. What was I doing? While I waited, I could be seeing all sorts of new species!

Two hours passed. When Crittendon was ready to go again, I had to give him some more tasks while, I told him, I was looking for any suspicious activity. There looked to be a hubbub over yonder. And there did. When a bunch of birds flush, something is certainly wrong, maybe for humans, maybe not. I was watching a sparrow that was giving me great trouble (no luck finding a field guide around here, even if it was in German) from the kitchen window when Crittendon made me jump out of my skin.

"How do you know your sister is there? And why?"

I spun around and found Crittendon surprisingly close. How hadn't I noticed him coming up? In any case, he suprised me and I stuttered for an answer.

"Um, well- Olsen told me he might have seen her. She was, um," I hesitated to lie-twice. "traveling in Europe before the war and must have been pretending to be French all this time, but- or- or she has been, and she was sending letters from France, but the letters stopped awhile ago. I thought maybe the Germans had gotten her. Maybe that's how." Better to not know something yourself than to make up every detail of a story.

He looked sympathetic, but business-like and came to stand beside me. "How did you get here, then, my dear?"

Sympathy... I thought about it. I was a young woman, far from my home in enemy territory way back in the 1940s. I shamelessly took that and ran with it. "Please don't ask," I pleaded, as if it would be the worst thing in the world to have to recount it. It sort of would be at this point.

"Oh," he said, looking down at his scarf. "Here, why don't you sit?"

As I was escorted a mere two feet to a chair, I sniffed. I wasn't going to overdo it. I could never fake crying. But I could look sad and mopey. (My mom still tells me that I could drag my knuckles better than anyone she knew.) And... and if I was tired from my journey, we wouldn't have to go. I slumped in my chair.

While I was thinking up the next thing to say, he interrupted. "Well, if she's in trouble, we must hurry!"

Not this again. "But- but if we slip up, wouldn't the Gestapo get involved? I don't even know how to sneak around well, or... speak German... or-"

"I can teach you!" he declared. I was at a loss for words. Spying lessons from Colonel Crittendon? But this was the break I was looking for. A time-consuming distraction from personal questions.

And so began my education in the German language (I'm pretty sure his pronunciation was worse than mine, and I speak maybe five words), navigation (which consisted mostly of unreliable old sayings), the importance of caution, and an ill-fated, very long, complicated, yet possibly correct explanation of military time. All of this I remained dubious about considering who it was coming from. The biggest thing it tried was my patience, which, in much more normal circumstances, I have a healthy dose of. But Crittendon has always driven me crazy. I only managed to listen at all because I was in a dangerous situation on the whole and my annoyance could be put aside. But I was surprised by the lessons in silent movement because they were actually useful, and we spent the most time on this.

Through all of this, I came to three conclusions. 1. This Crittendon was much better at moving silently than I'd imagined (the moving, not the nattering), which is probably how he got anywhere. 2. I didn't know how he got anywhere. I had to correct his calculations, map interpretation, and sense of direction more times than I cared to admit, which led to 3. I had to lose him. I hardly cared to go anywhere with him under Olsen's direct guide. There was no way I could manage with him alone. And I still had a good chunk of time to squander before dark.

Luckily, I was able to turn the grandfather clock back between lessons, and I continued to look more and more tired, being careful to exaggerate much more than I thought I should, because I would probably underestimate, and this was Crittendon.

After learning eye-n, sfie, dry, beer, and how to step carefully in leaf litter, I found Crittendon studying the clock, his watch, and the late afternoon sun out the window. So, I tried my hand at something more drastic. "Can we please take a break?" I begged, sitting down on the upholstered chair I'd first sat in on arriving here. He looked at me quizzically. I hesitated, then dove in. "I feel so... so faint." And I collapsed in the most graceful manner I could manage. It wasn't that graceful, but it did portray the damsel-in-distress effect I was going for. It sickened me to play it, but it was all I could think of. And it had taken me all day to work up to it.

"What's the matter? Why, we should be leaving. Don't tell me you've run out of energy."

"I'm- it's just been such a hard journey. And- dodging patrols and the bombing and..." I fainted properly this time.

I heard him stutter for a moment, then say, "My dear!" He had developed an unwelcome fatherly affection for me these last hours. First, he checked my pulse, muttering, "still there," as if I could somehow have died of distress. Then he tutted and continued mumbling his concerns over how he could possibly escape leaving me here, and feminine health, and whether I might wake up in time or be strong enough for a journey. Oh, how I wanted to roll my eyes. But I stayed limp and allowed him to straighten me (with much fretting) in my chair so it looked like I had dozed off. Luckily, the rhetorical questions about my strange clothes I did not have to answer. He soon found some other part of the house to busy himself in, and I could quietly bide my time, assured he wasn't going to leave as long as I was here.

While pretending to be asleep, I pondered how I got here. That watch was a time-travel device, sure enough, but the stranger part was that Hogan's Heroes authors had been sent back to Hogan's Heroes. Either it was like that one movie The Game where someone was trying to give us the ride of our lives, or else they were trying to get us killed. But you could kill anyone by sending them back to WWII. Why Hogan's Heroes authors? The only way to know about all of us would be to have access to the internet, so it had to be someone from the future/present. And then they would have had to stalk us to find out where we lived. Oh, all of those cyber-safety lessons... But then, why would Nora be here? She wasn't an author. Not on the site anyway. Maybe, just maybe, she wouldn't show up.

My thoughts didn't go anywhere. They might have gone further if I'd known a bit more fandom history, but I'd only been around for 2-ish years and I was rubbish at sorting through old forums (or new ones, at that). I also inadvertently began fabricating conversations with Olsen and Hogan and the Gestapo to try and explain my presence in each situation. I was somewhere around the unfruitful "Was ist los?" "Uh, I'm ein Amerikaner." "Why are you here?" "Um, I was with a diplomat mission? And got lost..." when the front door opened.

A triumphant "Hah!" and the sound of something hitting the floor made my eyes snap open. I saw Crittendon looking down in surprise at Olsen, who was immobile on the ground. In a hurry, I stood up, but in doing so, saw the woman standing behind him in a formal-looking dress. "Woops. Not a Jerry," Crittendon mumbled, looking down. The woman (read: German, unknown allegiance, Olsen didn't say anything about a woman, is she Underground?, is she not?, should we have been hiding when he got back?, danger!) looked with concern at Olsen and at the RAF officer standing over him.

Crittendon chuckled in embarrassment and began to retreat past me. "Oh. Um. Apologies. I hope he'll be okay. Why don't you just..." With the pause, it was to no one's real surprise when he bolted for the kitchen door.

Well, what choice did I have? There was no time to think about it, Olsen was still down for the count, and there was a German whom not only could I not communicate with but may very well turn me in. I couldn't stay.

I caught up with Crittendon halfway down the street and blessed the fact that Olsen lived close to the edge of town (likely on purpose). I pulled Crittendon to the right to take the short street that dead-ended at the woods. Once inside the trees, I wanted to stop and listen for signs of pursuit (and catch my breath), but Crittendon did not stop, and I, instead of taking this chance, could only think to catch up with him. Well, one of us did calisthenics, and the other did not, so I eventually had to shout after him. "Wait! Stop!" He stopped in surprise and I finally got to him. "I don't think we're being followed," I gasped, catching my breath.

He paused, putting a finger to his lips as if I needed to be quieted. After a few moments of listening. "I concur." He straightened. "Now, let's see. The moss is on this side of the tree, so the camp should be," he spun on his heel. "This way!"

Now if what Olsen said was true about authors arriving near the Stalag, and I had read the map correctly, we did indeed need to be going north. But now, Crittendon was marching confidently into the trees in the exact opposite direction. I wasn't going to stake anything on his sense of direction, and this may just be my chance to lose him. But it felt so rude. He was probably going to walk right into Gestapo hands. My morals plagued me, not least because I was pretty positive he'd never leave me in a bind. I groaned internally.

"Psst!"

He jerked into parade posture, then spun around.

"Isn't the Stalag north?" I suggested.

His countenance pinched with the effort of his thinking. "Why, I believe you are right." He strode toward me and I started off toward the road. "Always good to have a trusty navigator. I always seem to come across them. One of my commandos, may he rest in peace, was brilliant in the sky or on the ground. He would keep us on the straight and narrow, you know. Ha ha!"

I cringed at his weak joke and loud laugh. "Can we talk once we're away from town?"

"Oh. I see. Yes. We must be stealthy while the enemy is nearby. We don't know what domiciles may be tucked away in this wood."

On cue, we heard someone making their way toward us through the trees.

* * *

Author's Notes:

*Pilot joke. This is a bad idea in the kind of planes Crittendon would be flying. You will likely stall and fall to earth in a spin.  
**A life bird means this is the first time you've ever seen this bird and it will add onto your life list. Very exciting if you're either a great birder who's seen nearly everything, or a lazy birder who knows how to identify birds you've never seen but more often waits for the bird to come to you (that's me).


	35. Hogan 4

**Hogan 4**

Everything was going swell. Fine. Dandy!

And then all hell broke loose.

_Again_.

Not for the first time since this whole fiasco started, Colonel Hogan found himself wondering which cosmic force hated him. It was the only explanation.

There they were, standing at roll call, minding their own damn business. Klink had been suspicious of Wigman, but Hogan handled it well enough to throw him off the trail. And then a-tisket a-tasket, everything went to hell in a basket.

"Holy smokes!" Carter jumped back as a body suddenly fell from the sky and landed right on top of the person in front of him- right on top of Wigman. The hapless author went down like a rag doll and on top of her was what he could only assume was another hapless author.

"HOGAN!"

"Oh, for crying out loud!" Hogan cried, throwing his hands up. This was going too far. Surely he hadn't done anything to deserve _this_.

Klink recovered quickly from the surprise. And before Hogan could stop him or explain, he pounced. "Ah, Hogan," Klink said, shaking a fist, "I've got you this time! Guards, take this spy to the cooler at once!"

Two guards came and grabbed the girl- of course it was a girl, and young too from the looks of it- off Wigman and started to haul her off. Immediately, the other prisoners swarmed around Wigman and tried to hurry her limp body into the barracks.

"Stop! Or I will have you all shot!" Klink said firmly, elbowing his way through the crowd.

"Well, now wait a minute!" Hogan protested. "This man is-"

"Oh please, Hogan, save it for another time. You know very well that this is not Newkirk!"

"I never said it was. I didn't say anything about-"

"Hogan!" Klink stomped his foot. "Hogan, I demand an explanation for this!"

"An explanation for what?" Hogan asked stretching his hands out to Wigman. "I don't know what happened. I don't know _why_ it happened. All I know is that this man is injured and we've got to get him inside and check him over."

Klink scoffed loudly. "Hogan, please, do I look dumb to you?"

"I refuse to answer that on the grounds that it may land me in solitary," Hogan quipped. "All right fellas, take the corporal here into-"

"Just one minute," Klink interrupted. He stepped up to the two men who were holding Wigman up between them. Wigman's chin was on her chest and Klink reached up to grab it.

"Contagious!" Hogan blurted out quickly. Klink immediately withdrew his hand.

"Contagious?" he repeated.

"Very. We were trying to convince the guard to let him stay in for roll call, but he wouldn't listen to us. But believe me, that man right there is contagious with the most vicious case of the flu I've seen yet."

Klink pegged Hogan with an incredulous look. "I will take my chances." And with that, he grabbed Wigman's chin and swiped a thumb across her jaw. "Aha." He rubbed his fingers together. "Aha, just as I thought. Paint." He looked back at Wigman, who groaned but remained unconscious, and titled her head to get a better look. "Hogan, I know it has been a long time, but believe me, this is no dream- this is a woman."

Hogan pursed his lips and rocked back on his heels. There was no denying it, and he found himself without an explanation. He wasn't about to tell Klink that the woman was a time traveller. But then, what else could he say? They were caught red-handed.

"Guards, take her to the cooler!" Klink ordered.

"Hold on, Kommandant! You can't do that. She's hurt."

"Aha!" Klink held up a finger. "You said she! So you admit it's a woman!"

Hogan scrunched his nose. "Well if it is a woman, are you going to just throw her in the cooler while she's unconscious? I thought you were a gentleman, Kommandant."

Klink pulled himself up. "I am," he declared.

"Glad to hear it," Hogan drawled. "Fellas, why don't you take her into my quarters and get Wilson to come take a look at her."

"No! You will take her into my quarters!" Klink declared. "Schultz, Langenscheidt, I want you to stand guard. Do not let her out of your sight! Hogan, my office. Now." And with that, he marched off.

Schultz and Langenscheidt took Wigman from his men and dragged her off towards Klink's quarters. "Kinch," Hogan said as he grabbed the sergeant's arm. "Send Carter and LeBeau in to Klink's quarters. Get them to give Schultz the run around and maybe get Wigman down through the stove entrance."

"I'll see what I can do, Colonel," Kinch promised. Hogan nodded and then quickly set off for Klink's office. He found the Kommandant pacing, his riding crop tucked firmly under his arm. Upon Hogan's arrival, Klink stopped and whirled around to face him, unleashing his crop and pointing it right at Hogan's nose. Hogan pulled his head back and held up his hands defensively.

"Hogan, I want to know the truth," Klink declared.

"The truth?" Hogan repeated.

"Yes, the truth. The _real_ truth, not your version of it," Klink said.

"Colonel, have I ever told you anything that wasn't true?" Hogan asked innocently. Klink just glared at him. Hogan looked aghast. "Kommandant, I'm hurt!"

Klink shook his riding crop. "Hogan."

"Careful with that thing, Kommandant. You're liable to poke an eye out. And I can't pull off a monocle like you can."

They locked eyes until Klink finally grunted and lowered his weapon. Hogan let his hands drop. "I'm waiting, Hogan. _I_ know _you_ knew that was a woman at roll call. You must have known- you took the time and trouble to dress her like Newkirk. She didn't just appear! Where did she come from? How long has she been here? And what about the one who fell from the sky? Do you know her? What is going on? You're behind this! I want answers, Hogan, and I want them now!" Klink demanded, pounding his desk to punctuate every question and accusation.

"How the hell should I know?!" Hogan cried. Then he demurred slightly with a quick 'Kommandant.'

"Because whenever anything happens in this camp that is strange, or odd, _you_ are behind it!" Klink cried. "That woman did not just appear in Newkirk's uniform. She didn't just fall out for roll call by herself. You made her attend the roll call which means you must have known she was a woman."

Hogan grunted and crossed his arms. He was out of options. Even with his silver tongue, he couldn't talk his way out of this without revealing some truth. A woman literally fell from the sky right in front of Klink. And it wasn't as if Klink didn't know about the time travelers. After all, he had already had a little tête-à-tête with 'The Time Patrol'.

"All right, I knew it was a woman," he finally admitted tightly.

"Aha, aha! I knew it, I knew it! Oh, Hogan, when will you learn that you can't hide anything from me?" Klink crowed. "Now, how long has she been here?"

"Just arrived."

"Who is she?" Klink asked.

"She didn't say."

"Why is she here?"

"The scenery. The barbed wire is lovely this time of year," Hogan deadpanned.

"Hooogan," Klink warned.

Hogan threw his hands up. "Look, Kommandant, she just _appeared_. Granted, not as dramatically as the one who fell from the sky, but unexpected all the same."

"Hogan, women do not just appear out of thin air," Klink insisted.

"Were you at roll call, sir?"

Klink pursed his lips, but then acknowledged his defeat on that point with a huff. "And why was she at roll call in the first place?" Klink asked. "Why-" Klink cut himself off and his eyes grew wide in horror. "What about Newkirk? Where is _he_?"

"He disappeared."

"Disappeared?" Klink repeated. "You mean he _escaped_," Klink accused. "I will call the guards at once. Oh you're clever Hogan, very clever. This was all a ruse to destroy my perfect record." Klink picked up his phone, but Hogan quickly grabbed his hand and forced him to set it down again.

"I mean disappeared."

"How could he disappear?" Klink asked.

"I don't know, but he did. Poof. Whoosh. Gone. The moment that woman showed up, he disappeared. I don't know why."

"But that's not possible!"

"Colonel, a woman literally fell from the sky today," Hogan reminded him. "Another just appeared in the barracks. If these events have taught me anything, it's that anything is possible, up to and including Newkirk disappearing." He pinched the bridge of his nose. This whole thing was spiralling out of control.

Klink tapped his chin thoughtfully. "That woman. From the time patrol-"

"The what?" Hogan interrupted.

"The woman General Hahn brought in. You saw her, didn't you? Did you notice her clothes?" When Hogan nodded, Klink continued. "She was from the _future_, Hogan. Just like Wilhelmina. She said she was from the Time Patrol. _She _is behind this. She is probably working with that dreadful Russian woman. _She_ will know what is going on. We must find her."

"I thought you let her go," Hogan said.

Klink's face fell. "Yes, I did," he admitted. "An oversight. I should have kept her here and pressed her for more information but I thought... Well, I will find her. Of course, she could be anywhere. Anywhen. But if she is behind this, then she cannot be far. In fact, I am sure she will come to me. I have her friends, after all."

Hogan nodded thoughtfully. "You know, you could be right. She might even know where Newkirk disappeared to."

"I would not be at all surprised." Klink moved to his cabinet and pulled out a bottle of schnapps. He poured two glasses and offered one to Hogan, who accepted it. "I wonder why they are coming here. This place, this time," Klink mused after a sip. "What do you think, Hogan?"

Hogan shrugged. "Could be your perfect record, sir. Not one escape. I bet not even Genghis Khan had a record like that."

Klink nodded thoughtfully. "That's true. Perhaps no one in history has been as efficient as I am." Then he scoffed and waved the thought away. "Oh no, that could not possibly be it. I am not that remarkable... Am I?"

"You're certainly one of a kind," Hogan said lightly as he gulped down the rest of his drink. "Now, about that woman-"

"She will remain in my quarters as my guest," Klink said. "I will take care of her. We can't have her amongst the prisoners! She wouldn't be safe!"

"Now hold on! I resent the implication that my men can't be trusted!" Hogan protested.

Klink arched an eyebrow. "_You_ are going to keep a lone woman safe from a thousand prisoners?" Klink asked skeptically. "No. No, Hogan, she will be under my protection."

"And the one in the cooler?" Hogan asked. "The one that just dropped in? What about her?"

"She is safe in the cooler for now," he said. "Once I have the other one settled I will find a place for her. I may have to move some prisoners out of a barracks if any more show up."

"Perish the thought," Hogan muttered. "May I be excused, Kommandant?"

"Very well." Klink dismissed him with a wave of the hand. Hogan fired off a salute and quickly left.

Great. Just great. Wigman was now Klink's personal guest. And whoever it was in the cooler could be there for a while. Maybe he would spring her loose and make her disappear whenever Newkirk got back.

At that thought, Hogan quickly checked his watch. Newkirk would be contacting them from Olsen's house any minute now. Depending on the situation, they probably wouldn't be back with the _other_ author- Wind?- and Crittendon until dawn.

Hogan groaned. Great. Another author _and _Crittendon. The tunnels were already too crowded. Maybe he would get Margherita to march them all out of the tunnel to meet with Klink. She seemed quick on her feet. She could convince Klink that they were all from the Time Patrol on some sort of mission.

But then what? There were so many of them. Klink would panic. And they were mostly American. Maybe Klink would feel duty-bound to turn them over to the Gestapo. And what about Sue and the new one, Signy? They were Jews. Hogan didn't believe for a second that Klink or any of the guards were dyed-in-the-wool Nazis, but propaganda was a powerful thing and they had been subjected to it for a decade. And after what he had been told about-

Hogan shook his head. No. He couldn't risk turning those two over to Klink.

He couldn't really turn any of them over to Klink. Too many variables, too many mouths to keep shut. What if one of them let something slip? Tuttle tended to talk too much once she got comfortable. And Caroline and that _other_ new one were just children- they could easily be intimidated into giving away information.

He'd send Margherita to collect Wigman and the new one, bring them back down into the tunnels. And then they were all going to London, no ifs, ands, or buts. They could protest all they wanted, but they had to go. They'd give the watch one last try, but if it didn't work, out they went.

His mind made up, Hogan marched purposefully back to his barracks. It was dark, and Hogan could hear a few of the men snoring. The door to his office was slightly ajar, the faint glow of his lamp creeping through. Hogan made his way in and found Kinch, Carter and LeBeau sitting around the coffeepot.

"Any luck with Wigman?" he asked as he entered.

Carter and LeBeau shook their heads. "No sir. He kicked us out as soon as Wilson got there. But Wilson said he would report her condition to you as soon as possible," Carter explained.

"Fine. Kinch? Has Newkirk checked in?"

"Not yet," Kinch reported. "But it's early. It'll probably be another half an hour at least."

"All right. After he calls, I want you to get on the horn with London. LeBeau, make sure there's enough room for the new ones in the tunnels. And keep Crittendon far away from the women."

"Ah, oui, I am on it, Colonel. What about the one in the cooler?"

"Carter, go find out which cell she's in," Hogan ordered. "If it has a tunnel entrance, get her down there."

"Right."

Hogan blew out a breath. "Kinch, after Newkirk calls, I need to make a call to London."

"Are we sending the authors there?" Carter asked.

Hogan nodded. "As soon as Newkirk gets in, get him to make sure all the women have civilian clothes. Carter, get on the paperwork. This is top priority."

"But the timeline-" Kinch started to protest.

"Hang it. We can't have these women here. It's getting too dangerous and too chaotic. We'll try the watch one more time, but if it doesn't work, London can deal with them. We're running a sabotage operation, not a hotel for time travelers. And if London pries them for information, well, it's better our side gets it than the Nazis do."

"They will not be happy," LeBeau warned.

"They don't have to be happy. They just have to follow orders," Hogan said. "Carter, draw up a list of volunteers to escort them to the sub. We need to get them out of here by the end of the week."

"I volunteer, Colonel," Carter replied.

"Oui. Me too," LeBeau said.

"Fine, but we need a few more. Get on it."

"Right away, Colonel." The men stood up and hurried out of the room to complete their assignments.

"Oh come on!" Kinch cried out.

Hogan quickly got up and ran into the common room. Through the darkness he could see a figure near Kinch's bunk. One of the women. They couldn't just follow orders and stay in the damn tunnel.

"What on earth are you-"

Suddenly, the door to the barracks burst open and the lights came on. Kommandant Klink came marching in. "Hogan, I was just thinking that the woman might want to see a friendly-" Klink stopped and followed the men's gaze to Abracadebra. He looked between her and the men a few times before stomping his foot.

"Don't tell me- she just appeared," Klink said, snapping his fingers.

Hogan stifled a groan and glared daggers at Abracadebra.

He was going to kill her.

* * *

Tuttle's Note: Sorry it's been so long since this has been updated. The experiment is still in progress! We can finish it, everyone!


	36. Into the Woods (Tuttle and Wind)

**Into the Woods**

**Written by Tuttle4077 and Wind-in-the-Sage**

**Tuttle4077**

We left the hotel right after our dinner. My cover story ruled out lingering to talk, and I really didn't want to see what constituted dessert in world war era Germany. I was once told that in England they made strawberry jam out of turnips and sawdust, so I could only imagine that Germany had to get even more inventive with its sweets.

The streets were even quieter now which made me breathe a little easier. But, at the same time, it made me nervous. There was no crowd to disappear into if there was trouble. And wasn't there a curfew? I didn't know, so I put my trust in Newkirk to get us safely to Olsen's. He set a leisurely pace, his arm linked in mine, probably to divert suspicion from anyone bothering to pay attention to us. I wished we could walk faster because I wanted nothing more than to be safe at Olsen's house, but at the same time, I was tired; I probably couldn't have gone faster even if I wanted to.

It was colder now; I could see my breath and there was a faint halo around the streetlights. I huddled deeper into my coat and tried not to shiver. It kept me quiet for a few minutes, but, as usual, I had a hard time staying silent. Olsen's house was on the edge of the town and once we had left the more populated, busy area, I cleared my throat.

"It's a nice little town," I whispered, still cautious even though there was no one around to overhear us. "It looks like it belongs in a storybook or a fairytale. I bet it's really pretty when there's a fresh layer of snow- not that I _want_ it to snow. In fact, I hope I never get to see it in snow because I really want to go home. It's a real shame I have to be here now and under these circumstances," I said with a sigh. I had always wanted to visit Europe- as it was, both times had been during WWII which didn't leave much room for sightseeing.

"It is nice," Newkirk said after a moment. "Thought about coming back here myself after the war."

"You would leave London?" I asked incredulously.

Newkirk shrugged. "Not much there for me. Might be nice to start over with a clean slate somewhere no one knows me. Course, the way Andrew tells it, you can't run from your past, so no point in bothering."

"Ah, what does Carter know," I said, flippantly waving away the thought. "I'm all for the idea of starting over. Why not? You can be like Jean Valjean: a thief who starts over and makes good with his life. Of course, his past does catch up to him, but that's fiction. The real trick is keeping your old self from catching up with you. I mean, there's only so long you can _pretend_ to be someone else. You actually have to put in effort to change the kind of person you are. And, I think, the fundamentals never change. So, I guess the point is, you can run from your past, but you can't run from yourself, even if, in the long run, you can change yourself through lots of hard work. But it's easier to work on yourself and becoming a new person when you don't have a lot of people who know your past trying to keep you in your place."

Newkirk had a look that was a mixture of amusement and exasperation. "Blimey, but you do like to talk."

"Yes, but I never actually _say_ anything, do I?" I replied with a self-deprecating grin. "Eh, I think I just like the sound of my own voice. But, back on point, I've always thought you should move to Newfoundland after the war. Newkirk the Newfie. It has a nice ring to it."

"Not on your life," Newkirk said. "Ah, finally, just up there."

I vaguely recognized Olsen's house as we approached. Finally. My toes were freezing. Newkirk hurried up the steps and fished a set of keys from his pocket, fitting one in the lock and opening the door.

"Hah!"

I gasped and took a step back in surprise as Newkirk fell like a ton of bricks onto the floor. What was going on?

I looked from Newkrik sprawled in the doorway up to a man who was nervously babbling about something before he bolted and ran away. Stunned, I locked eyes with another woman who looked panicked before she too turned and fled.

Wait. What?!

It took a second for my brain to put the puzzle pieces together. That was Crittendon, apparently practicing his "killer judo". And the woman? That had to be Wind.

Crittendon! That yutz!

I stepped over Newkirk and into the house. Kneeling beside him, I shook him vigorously. "Newkirk! Newkirk, wake up!" I cried. "Newkirk!"

Aw geez. Nothing. He was out cold. Still alive though. And that left me with a choice. Did I stay with him? Or run after Wind and Crittendon?

I didn't have time to hesitate. Without another thought, I bolted through the house and out the back, looking about frantically, hoping to catch a glimpse of the two fugitives.

I didn't see them, but I took off towards the woods, putting myself in their shoes and guessing that's where they had gone. I had to hurry. Hurry, hurry. The sooner I caught them, the sooner we could get back to the house where it was safe.

I ran as fast as I could, trying to catch up with them, praying that I was heading in the right direction. For all I knew, I was getting myself lost and that would cause even more trouble. If I took a moment to stop and look around, to listen, maybe I could figure out if they were nearby, but I was too panicked to think straight.

"Ha! Stand back, my dear, and leave it to me!"

Suddenly someone, Crittendon, jumped out and grabbed my arm. He whirled me around and pulled me tightly against him, his hand still like a vice on my arm. He clamped his free hand over my mouth before I could say anything- actually, it took me a second to realize who it was, so he was really just muffling my scream.

Did Crittendon know who, or at least what, I was? Did he know the whole situation? Or did he think I was a random German citizen about to turn him in. My eyes widened with terror at the thought that he would just break my neck before bothering to find out.

"Crittendon, wait! Stop!"

* * *

**Wind-in-the-Sage**

The gig was up. I'd used English. Might as well jump in.

I jumped on Crittendon, tugging at his arms. If she wasn't friendly, she might be grateful, and anyway, it's rude to let your friend (used loosely) strangle a woman. "Get off of her!" I shouted quietly. It broke his focus and he looked at me in astonishment.

"She could give us up!" he protested.

"Not here she couldn't." She-whoever she was-gave me a miserable look. "And she might be on our side! Now let go!" I was suddenly impressed by the unfortunate feeling of scolding a dog to drop the shoe he'd found. Luckily, this wasn't a mean-spirited dog.

The red-haired woman gasped when Crittendon finally let go of her, and took a few moments to catch her breath.

As soon as she could speak, she looked at me. "Are you Wind?"

I didn't answer immediately, still trying to keep straight the different sides of the real war, the different sides of Hogan's Heroes/the current situation, and the different sides of this time travel mystery. I still had a healthy level of, if not distrust (Can't help it. I'm Midwestern.), uncertainty. She tried again while Crittendon pouted alertly beside her.

"Wind in the Sage? I'm Tuttle."

Okay. English. Two pen names. Olsen. All good. "You're one of the authors," I said, hoping for some final confirmation.

She nodded, finally catching her breath and standing more comfortably. That was strange, though. I'd thought the authors were in camp. "Why did-"

Crittendon's "Authors?" caused me to pause and explain to him.

"She's on our side. Olsen brought her." This looked like it satisfied Crittendon, even if it didn't bring him out of his pout. Or his-maybe it was my imagination?-look of suspicion at this mention of authors, which certainly had to be a code word pertaining to the top secret mission my clothes were necessary for and which Hogan was certainly at the bottom of with his no-good lack of a soldier's honor.

But now it was Tuttle's turn to look confused. "Olsen didn't bring me."

"Then who was that?"

Tuttle rubbed her forehead and sighed. "It was Newkirk. He and I had to go into town anyway, so we were going to bring you back in. Of course no one told you."

"What?" I could've sworn it was Olsen. And gosh, that's a bit of information I would have liked to know. But it supposedly would have worked out fine if not for Crittendon.

"Newkirk?" said nuisance chimed in. "You don't happen to mean that English chap from Stalag 13?" I could sense his disapproval already. Before I could stop Tuttle, she tried to clear things up.

"Yes, Newkirk," she said, pursing her lips with equal disapproval of Crittendon. "But even if it wasn't, even if it was Olsen, why on earth would you karate chop him the second he walked through the door? What in the freakin-" she cut herself off and took a deep breath. "Look, whatever. Let's just get back to Olsen's. Newkirk will fix you up with some new clothes and then we can be on our merry way to Stalag 13."

"Oh no, my dear lady. We will not be doing that. We have just prepared to escape on our own. No need for Hogan's men and their codswallop. And-" He drew himself up nobly and addressed Tuttle. "I will take you too."

"But-!" we both said.

Crittendon held up a hand. "I would rather not have women getting involved with violations of an international treaty, but as her sister is at Stalag 13 I have agreed to take her there. Then I shall get you all safely to England and resume my command."

"Your sister?" Tuttle repeated.

"Um. Well I think so. She went missing this morning or-" I caught myself, glancing at Crittendon. "Yeah. I assumed since I ended up here she must have too. Her name's Nora. Or Daily Nightly, I guess, is her pen name."

Tuttle frowned. "I don't... maybe she showed up while I was gone," she said hesitantly.

"You didn't see her?"

Tuttle shook her head.

Maybe she wasn't here yet. Or wasn't coming at all. That would be ideal. I couldn't say that out loud, of course. She was my current reason to keep from going back to England. My brows furrowed. There was a chance, either way. I decided to take this as a comfort.

* * *

**Tuttle4077**

"Come, come my dears, we must hurry. Jerry could sneak up on us at any moment while we're lollygagging about."

I made a fist and glared at Crittendon. There was no way I was going to let this walking disaster lead me anywhere. Frankly, I was surprised Wind would. Was she crazy? "The safest thing for us to do is to go to Olsen's and let Newkirk take us back to Stalag 13," I said tightly, trying very hard to control my temper.

"I think she's right, Colonel," Wind said. "Going to Stalag 13 is going to get us tangled up with Hogan anyway. So if we just wait-"

"And if the Gestapo should catch us with Corporal Newkirk? And they are able to ascertain from him everything going on at Stalag 13? They will question us too- none too lightly, I may add. If we go, just us, they will have no reason to question us any further than necessary." He eyed Wind. "Of course, they may be quite interested in your unusual attire. I've been meaning to ask-"

Well, he had a point. But it occurred to me in that moment that maybe Crittendon wasn't fully aware of the situation- possibly on purpose. I decided it was best to keep him in the dark as well as we could.

"Look, Colonel," I said as calmly as possible. It wouldn't do to fly off the handle with a man like this. I needed to appeal to his ego. You catch more flies with honey, after all. "I appreciate the point you are trying to make. But I'm pregnant which means I'm _exhausted_. I _really_ need to sleep before we go trekking through the woods. So with or without you, I am going back to Olsen's. But, I would feel so much safer if you would escort me there. Then, if you want, you can leave right away. Or, you can stick around and we can leave together after I have a nap."

Crittendon was somewhat taken aback. "You're... that fiend! I knew Hogan was a slipshod commander, but to allow one of his men-"

"No! No, no, no," I interrupted, waving my hands frantically. "Not... no. I'm quite happily married. And besides, I just got here a few weeks ago."

Crittendon wasn't pacified. He raised his hand and shook his finger in the air. "But to allow a woman in your delicate condition to go gallivanting around behind enemy lines is the height of irresponsibility and when I see Hogan next, I shall give him a piece of my mind! The very i-"

"Colonel!" Wind hissed loudly, grabbing noncommittally toward his upraised arm. "Can we please discuss this at Olsen's?! Tuttle said she was tired! Are you going to keep her outside just to rant about Hogan?"

That mollified him. Crittendon cleared his throat and straightened his jacket. "You're quite right. Forgive me. Let's go back." He held out his arm for me and I grudgingly took it. "Now, if we head in that direction," Crittendon said, pointing ahead of him. "Or, rather... that direction," he said, swiveling around, pulling me with him. I tried to loosen my arm from his, but couldn't.

"Maybe we should look at the map," Wind suggested earnestly.

Crittendon tapped his temple. "No worries, have it up here. Now, if I can just find a spot in the trees, I can use the stars to deduce-"

"Did you bring the map?" Wind asked.

"I burned it, of course. Can't let it fall into Jerry's hands. But, believe me, I memorized it."

Wind looked dumbfounded, as if the sheer scale of his, well, Crittendon-ness had broken her brain.

"I'm pretty sure it's that way," I said, pointing back towards where I thought I had come from. We weren't that far into the woods, so I probably wasn't that turned about.

Crittendon licked his finger and held it up. "Yes, I believe you are right. Off we go."

That didn't instill a lot of confidence in my suggestion (I was reminded of that episode with the unexploded bomb and Hogan picked the black wire after Klink suggested the white), but we headed in that direction anyway.

Within minutes we could see the lights from town peeking through the trees and I let out a sigh of relief. We were heading in the right direction. We would be back at Olsen's house any moment and then Newkirk could deal with Crittendon. Of course, Crittendon _was _a colonel and in the show, Newkirk followed his orders, even though he knew they were ludicrous.

Eh. Maybe Newkirk would just knock him out before he could issue any orders to follow. Then we'd shanghai him back to Stalag 13.

We turned the corner and stopped dead. Down the street, two men were standing on Olsen's doorstep, talking with Newkirk, who was rubbing the back of his head. From the way they were dressed, I could only assume they were the Gestapo. I remembered that Olsen had been quite chummy with the local Gestapo agents, so maybe they were paying him a social call and had found Newkirk passed out.

Whatever the reason, it wouldn't be good for them to spot us. Carefully we backed up round the corner.

_CRASH._

I winced and looked behind me. Wind looked back, horrified, an overturned garbage can still rolling slightly on the ground. She must have knocked it over.

Someone shouted down the street. The Gestapo?

We all shared a panicked look. Then, Crittendon stood tall and nodded. "Stay here. I'll lead them away," he whispered urgently. Then, without waiting for us to protest (not that we were about to), he bolted out into the street. "Hey! Hey, you lot! You'll never catch me!" And then off he ran into the alley across the way.

There was another shout in German, followed by the crack of a gunshot. I jumped in surprise and gasped. Wind grabbed my arm and pulled me to the ground and together we crouched in the shadows, watching as one Gestapo man followed Crittendon in hot pursuit.

There was still one Gestapo agent unaccounted for. Was he coming around the corner to see if there was anyone else? Was he heading in the other direction to cut Crittendon off?

Tentatively, I peeked around the corner to find out.

My heart dropped into my stomach when I saw the other agent strong arm Newkirk and pull him down the stairs. Newkirk struggled for a moment, but quickly stopped resisting and obediently let the Gestapo lead him away.

"Newkirk!" I whispered in alarm. "They've got Newkirk!"

Wind peeked out to see for herself. "We need to get outta here."

"Do you think they'll come back to Olsen's?" I asked.

"They might, to search the place. I don't think we should risk it."

I bit my lip. I was sure Olsen had a hidden room somewhere in his house, but I couldn't remember where. What if they thought Crittendon and Newkirk were in cahoots and had done something to Olsen and came back to search for him?

"I don't think I can find my way back to Stalag 13 through the woods," I said. "And we can't just take the road like I did with Newkirk."

"I was studying the map earlier," Wind said slowly. "I think I can get us there."

Despite the situation, I couldn't help but be amused. "Memorized it, did you?"

Wind evaded eye contact, apparently not sure how to react to humor in this situation. "No, but I got a good look at it, and I have a pretty good sense of direction. I think I can get us there."

I hesitated, weighing the options in my head. The balance tipped in favour of staying at Olsen's. There were a thousand and one things that could go wrong if we started hiking through the woods in the dark when the Gestapo knew there was an English prisoner running loose.

And I hadn't been lying when I told Crittendon I was exhausted. The second trimester of pregnancy wasn't as bad as the first, but I was still building a human being. That was a lot of work in its own right.

Maybe, _maybe_ the Gestapo would come back to Olsen's and do a search, but I was sure we could find that hidden room before they arrived if they did at all. And it seemed unlikely in my estimation.

I was about to tell Wind my thoughts on the matter- and if she disagreed, I would pull rank or something- but before I could, Wind gasped. "I left my binoculars back there!"

"Binoculars?" I repeated.

"And my philosophy journal! It references books that haven't been written yet!"

Binoculars and a philosophy journal? Just what had Wind been doing before she was dropped into this mess? "Does it have any dates?"

"I don't think so... But it's all in English and it doesn't make any sense in context."

"Okay, cool. So we'll go back to Olsen's," I said, relieved that there wasn't going to be any argument over that point. "You get your stuff together. I'm pretty sure Olsen mentioned a hidden room in his place, so I'll look for that and we can hide out until he comes to get us."

"Okay," Wind said, motioning for me to lead the way.

I looked up and down the street before slipping around the corner. We stuck to the shadows and hurried down the street. We scrambled up the steps to Olsen's house and rushed through the still open door. I closed it behind us and locked it.

"Okay, get your stuff and then keep an eye out the window. I'll go snoop around." Wind nodded and disappeared into the kitchen while I went up the stairs. "Now, if I had a secret room..." I poked my head into a few rooms until I found a small study with walls lined with bookshelves. "This is where I'd put the entrance."

Maybe it was clichéd, but I would not have been surprised if one of the bookshelves opened. I just had to find the right book. I scanned the shelves, unsure of what I was looking for. I remembered that Olsen's codename came from _A Tale of Two Cities_, but all the book titles were in German. Of course it wouldn't have been that easy. I gingerly pulled at a few books without success. For all I knew, I was barking up the wrong tree.

"Tuttle!"

At Wind's cry, I abandoned my quest and raced out of the room and down the stairs. Wind met me at the bottom.

"Quick!" she said. No further explanation was needed for at that moment, someone was pounding on the door, shouting in German. It would only take a minute before they became more forceful and broke down the door.

Without another word, we rushed out the back door. We didn't stop running until we reached the forest.


	37. Musketeers? (Snooky-9093)

**And now a word from Tuttle4077:**

Hello everyone! It's been a while since we've had regular updates, what with the holidays and the PBAs and what not, but it looks like we're ready to get going again.

Since it has been a while and some people may be confused as to what is happening in the story, here is a little recap.

**The Mary Sue Experiments: Hochstetter's Revenge Recap**

Someone is mysteriously targeting Hogan Heroes fanfiction authors and sending back through time and space to Stalag 13, 1943. Due to an injection that makes the time travelling watch impossible to use, the women are now stuck in the past with no clear way of returning home. Now Hogan must figure out what to do with them, and how to keep them safe.

**The players so far:**

Tuttle4077

Old English Game AKA OEG AKA Caroline

Abracadebra

LE Wigman AKA Leah

Snooky-9093 AKA Sue (or Mary Poppins!)

konarciq AKA Margherita

CalmSheJaguar

Signy1

Wind-in-the-Sage

Daily Nightly AKA Nora

**What's Happened:**

Tuttle4077, OEG, LE Wigman, Snooky and Abracadebra arrived at Stalag 13 and for a few weeks were making the best of the situation while staying down in the tunnels.

Konarciq arrived in 1943 several miles outside of camp and was picked up by the White Russian, Marya, and her travelling companion, General Hahn. After arriving at Stalag 13, konarciq was accused of being a spy and was thrown into the cooler. But, hours later, Kommandant Klink had her brought to his quarters where she told him she was part of the "Time Patrol". Subsequently, Klink released her from Stalag 13, thinking she was on some sort of temporal mission. Outside of camp, she was met by a group of prisoners, and taken down into the tunnels.

Meanwhile, General Hahn revealed to Hogan that he was also from the future (2008), having been sent by the CIA to retrieve the 1943 time travel device. He left Hogan with a tablet containing pictures, one of which was a picture of a very old Colonel Hogan and a much younger Hahn. Suspicious of Hahn despite the pictures, Hogan sent Tuttle and Newkirk into town to confirm his identity (Tuttle suggesting that she could possibly know Hahn if he was indeed a CIA agent from 2008).

Marya also has plans for the watch. She arranged to meet with Colonel Hogan in her hotel to propose a partnership of sorts.

Shortly after, Signy and CalmSheJaguar arrived in camp and were squared away in the tunnels.

While in town on various business, Olsen met up with Colonel Crittendon, who had escaped from his own POW camp, and another author, Wind-in-the-Sage. Unsure of what to do with them, and with no way of bringing them into camp unnoticed, Olsen stashed them at his home in Hammelburg with the understanding that he would come back for them in the evening. However, because Tuttle and Newkirk were already going into town, the plans changed for them to bring them into camp on their way back.

After confirming Hahn's identity as a CIA agent, Tuttle and Newkirk made their way to Olsen's to collect Crittendon and Wind. However, Crittendon knocked Newkirk out before he could even set foot through the door. Wind and Crittendon fled into the woods but were stopped by Tuttle who explained the situation. They decided to return to the house, but found Gestapo agents there. To protect the girls, Crittendon drew their attention and ran off. Newkirk was taken into custody for the suspicious timing of Crittendon's arrival. Wind and Tuttle were left with no choice but to find their own way back to Stalag 13

In order to cover up Newkirk's absence, Wigman was recruited to take his place in line. Though not perfect, her disguise fooled Klink until... POOF! another author, Daily Nightly, fell from the sky and landed on her. Daily Nightly, who happens to be Wind's sister, was taken to the cooler. Leah was revealed to be a woman and is currently in Klink's quarters as his guest. But before she regained consciousness, Klink decided a friendly face might be less terrifying to wake up to, so he went to Hogan's barracks to collect him, only to find Abracadebra in the common room without explanation.

**And now, on with the story.**

* * *

**Musketeers?**

**Written by Snooky-9093**

How to experience chaos with a capital C? Well, according to one of the Barracks 2 residents, an unidentified author made like the house in the Wizard of Oz and dropped herself on Leah. Splat. Injured, Leah was now a guest of Klink's. In his quarters. The new arrival was headed for the cooler. And to make things even more convoluted, Crittendon is now somehow in the picture. Tuttle left camp with Newkirk to bring back Wind in the Sage. And I was sitting in Hogan's office (with orders not to move and not to open the door) and developing a real headache. To be fair, the boys in the back row-as I like to call them-are as confused as I am. We're all having difficulty keeping everything straight. I've even lost track of how long we have all been here.

I walked over to the entrance and cupped my ear against the door. I could hear people talking; but I couldn't make out any words. I looked around the room, hoping to find something-even a stethoscope-I could use to help. There was nothing obvious. Nothing workable in the footlocker; nothing in the taller locker. No wait. There was a mug; Hogan probably used it for shaving. I grabbed it and put it up against the door. That didn't work either. So much for learning the tricks and trade of spying by watching _Get Smart_ and wait…what was that other show? Yup. A silly sitcom named _Hogan's Heroes_. I groaned and plopped myself down on the chair next to the table.

The door opened and Kinch entered the room. He gave me a small grin. "How are you doing, ma'am?"

"Do you have any aspirin? And what are you all planning? I could hear a lot of talking." I sat back in the chair and drummed my fingers on the table.

Kinch opened up a drawer in Hogan's desk and removed a bottle. He took out two pills and handed them to me. The men weren't totally heartless. They didn't shove me in here with nothing. I had my own mug of lukewarm tea to keep me company. I swallowed the aspirin and said thanks.

"You're welcome." Kinch ignored me and went over to the footlocker. He opened a false bottom and removed some items. I poked my head around his tall frame and spied some phones and, wait! There were some other phones in there as well, and some chargers. I didn't have my charger with me while I was at the Apple store, but I definitely recognized that someone else had.

"Hey, sergeant. Could I please see my phone?" I stood up and pointed. "And that charger?"

"What for?" he asked.

"I'm bored, and I wanted to see some of my photos. No, wait. They won't work. The doohickeys."

"Doohickeys?" He raised his eyebrow.

"You know the thing with the electricity. We need adaptors to use some of our equipment in Europe. The plugs are different."

Kinch came over to me and handed me one of the chargers. "Is this the right kind?"

"Yup." It fit perfectly.

He rubbed his chin. "Well, I might be able to jury-rig an adapter. But later. We've got a situation."

"What kind of situation?"

"And I'm waiting for the colonel to come back." That's how they often rolled. Ignoring questions and fishing for information. It was aggravating.

"I suppose you want me to go down below?" I almost whimpered. The dampness was exacerbating numerous aches and pains, especially in my back. And my breathing was a lot to be desired. Mold, probably. I had come up top (with permission) for a short break. My chest began feeling tight right after Abracadebra had dozed off. I let her be and went to find a soldier. And that's how I ended up climbing the ladder to fresher air.

At that moment, Carter, LeBeau entered the office. "Coffeepot," Carter stated.

The three looked at me. And I gulped.

"You can't stay here, Madame." LeBeau gently grabbed my arm and led me protesting out to the common room. It was now dark and most of the other residents were resting.

"The colonel's coming back," warned one of the extras-I meant lookout. He had a small bit of curtain pulled back; how he was able to make anything out in the compound, I'll never know. All I knew is that if Hogan found me still here, I would be in big trouble. And I didn't want the kindly POW who allowed me to come up top to be in trouble either.

"Quick. Get in that bunk, and cover yourself up all the way," LeBeau ordered. Fortunately, he pointed to a lower bunk. I paid attention and made myself as invisible as possible, covering up most of my face in the scratchy blanket. I turned towards the wall and tried not to breathe. I heard LeBeau go back to Hogan's office, and then I heard the colonel come in.

I peeked and saw the door to the office was slightly ajar. But, I could not make out any of their conversation. I took a few deep breathes and was relieved to learn that I was able to get in a bit more air, and that my controlled breathing made me relax a bit. My sinuses still bothered me, but I was all too used to that ailment. I then sensed a subtle noise, which sounded vaguely like the bunk to the tunnel opening. I turned my head and, sure enough, someone came climbing out of the hole in the floor. It was Abracadebra,

Shortly afterwards, Hogan's men came hurrying into the common room.

"Oh, come on!" Kinch cried out.

At that, Hogan ran out of the office. "What on earth are you-"

Suddenly, the door to the barracks burst open and the lights came on. This time I took the blanket and completely covered my head. What if Klink discovered both of us? What if he discovered my last name? Why didn't I keep my maiden name? What if Klink was not the gentleman portrayed in the original MSE story? Why did I keep overthinking everything?

I heard Klink march into the barracks, but I was too terrified to watch. I felt the man on the upper bunk jump down. He sat down on the bottom bunk_. _Wow, they are on the ball. I inched as far over to the wall as I could, and straightened. This was a great time to be only 4'9". My body sort of evened out.

"Hogan, I was just thinking that the woman might want to see a friendly-" He stopped talking. He must have definitely seen my friend. I heard him stomp his foot. "Don't tell me- she just appeared," he said as he snapped his fingers.

I had no idea what would happen next. I only knew that our situation was now elevated to dire with a capital D. I held back a sob, and hoped Hogan would use his silver tongue to mollify the Kommandant. Or, it was possible he would lose his temper. On the other hand, I no longer felt sick. I guess abject terror was a great boost to the immune system. Should I take some of the heat, bail out Abracadebra and reveal myself?

What was that motto? All for one and one for all? I slowly moved the part of the blanket covering my head….


	38. Options (LE Wigman)

**Options**

**Written by L.E. Wigman**

It occurs to me that one doesn't fully grasp how peaceful - and oftentimes pleasant - unconsciousness is until one wakes. I was blissfully unaware of everything. Time and space doesn't exist, nor does reality. My pain level? Zero. Consequences for being uncovered in Stalag 13? Nada. Any worries about what crazy, unexpected thing might happen to me and my peers next? Nope.

All problems in life can be pushed to the side until you wake; however, just as suddenly as I had slipped into blissful darkness, I was jerked awake by what I can only describe as the smell of strong vinegar. My eyes flew open and I jerked away. My stomach rolled and I gagged, curling into a ball and shoving my face into the hard fabric.

"Is she okay?"

The voice was slightly familiar and worried.

"Well, she's awake."

_Wilson? _I forced myself to turn back toward them. "Oh, lord," I muttered, closing my eyes in a vain attempt to reduce the swimming sensation. Not having my glasses was bad enough, but adding that sensation was really not fair. "I feel like I was hit by a Freightliner."

"Nope," Wilson assured me in his usual deadpan tone. "Just another member from your Time Patrol."

I'm not a very clear-thinker the moment I wake - less so when I'm not feeling well - but even so, this sentence made no sense to me. I opened my eyes again and tried to sit up, intending to ask just what that was supposed to mean when Wilson put his hand against my shoulder. "Don't move too fast," he cautioned.

I opened my mouth to complain when I finally noticed that I wasn't in the barracks. This was a much nicer place with a sofa (upon which I was laying) and wallpaper… and dodads of all kinds. It had a coffee table, which Wilson was sitting on, and on the other side of the room to the right of the door was a dining table. _At least they got that correct on the set design._

I spotted Schultz hovering close, just above Wilson and behind both of them was another man stationed at the door. He was in uniform and I stared at him mutely. I couldn't see him clearly, but he was definitely much younger than Schultz and thinner, too.

"Miss," Wilson said softly, nudging me gently. "You should probably lay back down."

"Who's he?" I demanded, ignoring the suggestion as I hugged myself. I was still in the blue uniform and putting a quick hand to my face indicated that the khol liner was still in place. "And where am I? This doesn't look like the barracks. Why am I here?"

Schultz took over. He seemed brighter and sounded less concerned than he had been moments ago. "I am Sergeant Schultz," he said, seemingly forgetting about our meeting in the dog kennel when I arrived weeks ago. But perhaps he just didn't recognize me? "That is Corporal Langensheidt and you are in Kommandant Klink's private quarters. One of the members of your Time Patrol fell on top of you."

"What are you talking about?"

Schultz straightened, the smile faded and a suspicious look was cast at me then Wilson. "You don't know?" he asked.

Wilson covered my mistake easily. "Give her a break, Schultz. She's obviously suffered a concussion and is confused." Turning back to me, he winked twice. "You remember what you told the guys in the barracks…" he trailed off, before adding, "about Konarciq and the Patrol…"

I thought as quickly as I could with my pounding head and nodded along. "Oh, yeah… right. The Time Patrol. That I told you about. In the barracks."

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose as I floundered around. "You see," I spoke slowly, hoping to give my imagination time to catch up, "I'm not really a proper agent for the Patrol."

"You're not?"

"No - well, you might say that I'm a, um, _probationary_ field agent." I smiled up at Schultz in what I hoped was a convincing fashion. "As a matter of fact, it's my first mission. I usually do office work. After-action reports. Statistical studies used to extract more sophisticated training techniques. Records. That's what I usually do."

There was a pause. I didn't really know what to say next. I looked down, noticed the bandage wound around my wrist and frowned. _Funny, my wrist doesn't hurt. _

"Anywho." I swung my legs off the couch and stood, holding onto the medic's arm as he too stood and offered support. "I suppose I should be going back to the barracks," I said cheerfully, "Work like ours doesn't take a holiday."

I pushed my way past Schultz and had made it to the middle of the room when Langenscheidt stopped me. His voice was huskier than I'd expected and it didn't really suit his almost scarecrow-like impression.

"The Kommandant has given strict orders that you are to remain in his quarters."

I looked down at his firm grip on my elbow. This was not the meek, mild-mannered Langenscheidt of the series or the fanon-world. He pointed toward the left side of the room. "You will stay in the Kommandant's guest room. Right, Sergeant?"

Schultz bobbed his head causing the fat around his jowls to jiggle. "Ja. You will stay, fraulein."

"I'll help her to her room," Wilson said, picking up a green musette bag with a distinct red cross. "I want to check her over a little more; make sure her ribs aren't damaged. You understand the need for privacy, eh, Schultz?"

"Oh, ja," he said seriously before gesturing to Langenscheidt.

I was escorted to the appropriate door with Langenscheidt on one side and Wilson on the other. "Well, since you put it that way, I am rather tired. And a good night's sleep would probably help with the headache."

The room I was put in had dark blue wallpaper with a plain white trim. There was a double bed with a quilt of brown, rust, and gold fabrics and at the foot of the bed was a wooden chest. A tall dresser stood against the wall on the left side of the bed and a smaller, fatter one with a mirror hanging above it on the wall closest to the door. There was one window beside the tall dresser with a blue, frilly curtain.

Wilson guided me in and shut the door behind us. "Listen, we don't have much time," he instructed, his voice hushed. "The Colonel will figure a way out, just keep your mouth shut and don't let anything slip to Klink. Got it?"

I shook my head a little too vigorously and the throbbing increased. "No, no. This is not a good plan," I said, wincing. "I need to get back to the tunnels. I _want_ to go back to the tunnels."

"And you will, but that might not happen for a bit. Sit tight."

"But…"

"Sit. Tight."

With the last word firmly secured, Wilson disappeared through the door. I could hear him making his farewells to Schultz and then another shutting of a door. I checked the door for a lock and was dismayed to find it was an old lock that undoubtedly had a skeleton key, probably in the pocket of one bald Luftwaffe colonel.

Turning back to inspect the room, I found myself staring into the mirror. _I told them this wouldn't work. _I thought bitterly, swiping the khol liner off my face with the sleeves of my RAF jacket. The tune 'Reflection' from Mulan popped into my head. Gosh, was that movie created for my current situation?

I grunted angrily - the fine, beard-like strokes were gone, but the color was still there. I looked like the chimney sweeps from Mary Poppins. (Yes, apparently everything in life reminds me of a Disney movie)

Giving up on cleaning my face, I considered my options.

Option A: Listen to Wilson.

This had a few pros, such as the likelihood of success and the fact that it provided my rule-following self with the satisfaction of doing the 'right' thing. However, my mind told me in no uncertain terms that my big mouth would cause more trouble before they could get me out.

Dismissing this, I moved on to option B: Find a weapon and get myself out through the door I came in.

This had no pros and the con of getting myself hurt; more than I already was, that is. The option was firmly passed over.

Option C: Barricade the door and hightail it out the window.

I pursed my lips and decided on the last one. I tried the tall dresser first, but it was too awkward to maneuver, especially as I found that there was a reason my wrist was bound. The fat dresser was chosen as back-up and I managed to tug it into line with the door. Getting on the other side, I put my shoulder close to the middle and shoved with all my might.

It slid across the wood floor and settled against the door with a soft thud. I winced.

_Subtlety was never your strong suit. _

I waited a moment, listening, but the two voices in the other room were still speaking. So, I crossed the room and raised the sash of the window. I looked down, judging how far off the ground we were - about four feet, maybe less - before climbing out and dropping down.

I pressed against the building and slid against it, hiding in the shadows. As I reached the corner of the building, I took a deep breath before arting into the bare area between buildings. I traveled that way for what felt like forever. I spotted some guards and froze until they passed.

Sadly, I found that the more I moved, the more twisted around I became… until it dawned on me; this camp is way bigger than it appears in the show. I'd never be able to find Barracks 2 in the dark without my glasses. I had to find something certain.

_The Gate!_

The gate was the only thing that I knew for sure was visible from Barracks 2. I sought the fence and used it to guide me back. One moment I paused, waiting for the searchlights to pass, and wondered if the fence lifted like in the series.

_No, surely that was just used for a visual gag. _

Still… I had to know.

Next thing I know the alarms sound, the searchlights go haywire, and I'm being screamed at in German. My hands flew up over my head and I squeaked, "Komerad!"


End file.
